


The Seduction of Motomiya Daisuke

by Anatui



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Bottom Ichijouji Ken, Childhood Trauma, College/University, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Eventual Smut, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Football | Soccer, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Roommates, Shameless Smut, Top Motomiya Daisuke | Davis Motomiya, Yagami Hikari | Kari Kamiya Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-12 15:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21478426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anatui/pseuds/Anatui
Summary: Daisuke's friendship with Ken has always come easily. It's the lusting after your best friend part that's hard.He just didn't realize how hard until Ken starts acting weird.Now, Daisuke isn't sure how long he can handle his BFF and roommate's sudden attentions. At least, not without potentially ruining a 12-year friendship.
Relationships: Ichijouji Ken/Motomiya Daisuke | Davis Motomiya
Comments: 51
Kudos: 93
Collections: 2019 Digimon OTP Advent Challenge, Daiken Discord Server





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been toying with for a little bit, so I'm pretty excited to share this opening chapter. There will definitely be some smut later on, but I'm not sure how long it will take. The whole story, aside from the opening and closing chapters, takes place over a single weekend. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_KEN_

Hikari frowns in the booth across from me. "Come on, Ken, it can't be that bad…can it?"

I almost laugh.

Because even she hesitates when she actually thinks about it.

Of course it's that bad.

Daisuke, my best friend for over a decade, my crush for just as long—perhaps longer—and my roommate since we graduated high school, taunts me.

Not literally.

Okay, well, it's Daisuke, so yes, literally. But not literally about this. That would require him to have the faintest idea about my crush.

God, I can hardly call it a crush anymore. It's been twelve years since we first met, and while it's safe to say my eleven-year-old self had a crush, that's hardly the appropriate word now that we're twenty-three.

But unintentional as it may be, he still taunts me.

He walks around the apartment in his boxers without a care in the world. He has no problem changing clothes or even taking a shower with the door only partway shut. To be fair, we only have the one bathroom, and he takes ridiculously long showers right when I need to get ready for work, so leaving the door cracked makes sense. But he leaves the door cracked even when it's two in the afternoon on a Sunday, and neither of us is going anywhere.

He takes any opportunity to pinch or prod me. He's always been a physical person, but he enjoys teasing me far more than I can handle. He snickers every time I squirm and gasp when he pokes me or runs his fingers over my ribs to tickle me. In fact, he's thinks it's "fucking hilarious." That's an exact quote.

Worst of all, though, is how easily he hugs me. He's a genuinely affectionate person, and he has no understanding that invading someone's personal bubble is wrong—or maybe he thinks we've been best friends long enough my personal bubble no longer exists for him. He'll press a hug to my back while I'm cooking—then spend the next few minutes with his chin on my shoulder, critiquing my every move because I'm apparently "absolute shit" in the kitchen, though he says it with an amused laugh and his hot breath on my neck. When we watch a movie, he sits right next to me, far closer than necessary on a large couch, and stretches his arms across the back so I have no choice but to curl into him. And on the few nights I still suffer from nightmares, he crawls into my bed and holds me in his muscular embrace until I calm down. On those nights, he refuses to leave, insisting in case the dreams come back. The nightmares stay away for the rest of the night, but his arms remain hooked around me—a promise that he'll keep me safe. He hasn't failed me yet.

When at last I meet Hikari's gaze again, still trying to decide the best way to explain, her face has fallen. "That bad, huh?"

I nod, solemn.

"And you're sure he doesn't know what he's doing?"

I scoff, lips twisting into a petulant scowl. "This is Motomiya. He rarely has any idea what he's doing."

Hikari smiles at that. "Daisuke has matured quite a bit, Ken."

"Not when it comes to me. He's a child—he pouts, he begs, he pokes, he even tries to trip me sometimes."

But she only laughs. "Does he try to pull your pigtails too?"

I shoot her a glare—mostly because she knows one of my reasons for finally cutting my hair back in high school was because Daisuke liked to play with it.

Then, she sighs. "Honestly, it sounds like he likes you, and considering that's exactly what you want, I don't see the problem."

I reach for my teacup and frown at the remnants of my matcha. "You know me, Hikari. I'd prefer not to make any moves without all the data, and this is definitely a situation where I need more data. If I misread signals, I could ruin one of the most important friendships in my entire life."

Hikari stretches across the table to squeeze my wrist. "Change is scary no matter what, Ken. But if you think Daisuke would ever stop being your friend because you confess your feelings, you're underestimating him."

"No, it's not…" I shake my head. "I know he'd still be my friend, but everything would be different. Everything would be tainted."

She smiles again, this one an attempt to comfort and reassure me.

"I just…I need more data, but I can't decide on the best plan to proceed."

"Well," she says, teasing a little now, "if you're asking me to interrogate him about his feelings for you, the answer's definitely no."

I snort. That wasn't even on my radar.

"We're not eleven anymore," she continues, more seriously this time, "and between the two of us, I think we can find something more appropriate and accurate."

I shake my head with a sigh. "I hope so. I've been thinking about this for weeks, but everything I come up with just doesn't work."

She snickers. "Because you're thinking about this like Ichijouji Ken."

I glower at her. "I am Ichijouji Ken."

"Yes, but thinking like you isn't going to break through to Daisuke. You're too logical, too critical. We need to think like him to find something that will work."

Hmm.

That's actually a good idea.

I swallow, narrowing my eyes in thought. "So we play to his strengths?"

Hikari shakes her head, a little smirk growing on her lips. "No, we _manipulate_ his strengths, and we play dirty."

My mouth curves into a wide smile, and a short laugh bursts from my lips.

"Well," she amends, "_you_ play dirty. I have no intention of getting more involved than this."

"Noted," I say when my laughter fades, and I quickly return to all seriousness.

"So first, we determine Daisuke's strengths—how he thinks about things, what senses he relies on, how you can switch around his schedule to your advantage."

I give a short nod. "Well, he's a very physical person, so touch is really important. He bounces around from idea to idea and has trouble making everyday decisions. He's rarely observant, but if something has his focus, he is hyper-aware of that thing, though usually that's a video game or something."

She bobs her head in agreement. "Okay, but I think you're missing something very important: As impulsive as Daisuke can be, he really relies on things to be the same. He relies on you to be the same."

I cock my head. "What do you mean?"

"Ken, it's no secret that you and your friendship has been Daisuke's rock throughout the years. Even a few small changes—nothing too obvious, of course—could really get under his skin."

Oh.

"Also," she adds, "don't forget how incredibly emotional and impulsive he is." Here, she hesitates. "Which is exactly why I think the best course of action is to give him a dose of his own medicine. Force him to be the one uncomfortable."

I want to smile, but I hesitate. "I'm pretty sure that would require more self-confidence than I have, Hikari."

She holds me steady with no more than a firm smile. "Ken, you are one of the most intelligent and attractive men I have ever met. Reach deep and give him hell, you understand?"

I laugh, but my heart isn't in it. "You're enjoying this far too much…"

The small smirk on her normally soft features is confirmation enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was updated on 11/27/19 to reflect the actual setup of Japanese bathrooms.

_DAISUKE_

_Friday, 6 a.m._

Normally, when I get up on weekday mornings, I crawl into the shower to force myself to wake up.

Well, also to annoy the shit out of Ken, since he spends the whole time he's in the main bathroom area bitching about how bathing in the mornings doesn't make sense and how opening the partition between the shower and the vanity while I soak fogs up the room and limits his ability to get ready on time.

Oddly, this morning, the shower is already running when I stumble toward the bathroom.

Odder still, when the shower turns off, the sound of splashes indicate the person climbed into the bath.

Sure, Ken enjoys soaking as much as the next person, but he never bathes this early in the morning, especially on a weekday. It's not a problem for me because the ramen shop doesn't open till lunchtime, but Ken's usually out of the apartment for work and class by eight.

The only conclusion I see: Someone else is using our bath.

I stumble toward the main living space, but there's no sign that someone slept on the couch or the floor. I know no one slept in my room with me, obviously. So that leaves only one place a guest could sleep…

The idea that Ken had someone sleep over and didn't tell me makes my chest constrict, and I dash toward his closed door.

My knuckles rap against the wood firmer than strictly necessary.

When no answer comes, I knock harder.

Again, no response.

I try the knob—unlocked—and push my way inside, but the room is empty and, thankfully, I can't find any signs that someone slept over.

Unless they shared Ken's bed.

I can't breathe.

No, that's not an option.

He has to tell me if he has someone come over, right? That's not unreasonable, is it?

My eyes dart around the room, looking for any signs of the night's events. A sock or a strand of hair or a jockstrap out of place. Anything.

But Ken has always been weirdly organized, and he probably wouldn't allow a lover to make a mess of his room.

Since when is he sleeping with someone? And why the hell wouldn't he tell me? Are they dating? Is it a fling? A one-night stand? Who the hell is it?

Fuck, are they soaking together right now?

I exit the room, much surer on my feet now that I've been jolted awake, and storm into the bathroom, determination in every step.

But what if he's with someone? What am I supposed to do, drag the guy from the tub and throw him out of the apartment?

I sigh.

Ken would murder me. He may not be the Kaiser anymore, but there are still moments where he scares the shit out of me.

Weird. The bathroom mirror is fogged up at the edges and the room is hot and humid, and I can immediately see why:

The door to the shower and tub area is open.

There's a direct view of the tub user.

I release a sigh of relief when I realize there's only one person soaking in the tub and, judging from the arm dangling over the side of the tub, that person is definitely Ken.

The relief, though, fades when he lifts a toned but narrow leg from the water and stretches it high in the air. Then, he switches legs to stretch the other, and my eyes follow the line down to their natural conclusion. The bath salts hide anything under the water, but it doesn't take a genius to know what's underneath.

I stumble back, hitting the sink, and white knuckles grip the ceramic behind me.

I can't take my eyes off the tub area, even if I can't see where he lays his head, and when the water sloshes with movement and he releases a pleased sigh, I have to stifle a possessive growl.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Absolute fuck.

I want to tear off my clothes, dive headfirst into the tub, and have my fucking way with him. I want his soft sighs to shift to gasps and moans when I touch him, whimpers when I blow him, sobs when he calls out my name, screams when I finally allow him to come.

I take a breath, forcing myself to ignore the growing hard-on, and struggle toward the open door to the hallway and sanity. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something I regret.

But even spending a good twenty minutes taking care of my not-so-little problem, prolonging it in an attempt to prevent it from, _ahem_, popping up again, doesn't prepare me for Ken's sharp gasp as I pass the bathroom on my way toward the kitchen.

"Dammit."

I frown. What's wrong?

"Hey, Motomiya?" he calls out.

I freeze, not wanting him to realize I'm literally right here. He might think I was spying while he bathed…which would be technically true, just not right now.

"Motomiya?" he tries again.

This time, I force myself to move and poke my head inside the bathroom. "You need something?" I ask, eyes darting toward the tub.

His head and shoulder extend out of the tub where I can see him, and his face quickly shifts into a relieved smile. Seductive rivulets of water slide down his throat and chest. "Thank goodness. I must've still been so asleep earlier because I forgot to grab a change of clothes or even a towel." He laughs, his cheeks pinkening more from his amusement than the heat, and he looks utterly beautiful. "Could you grab one for me?"

"Uh…" I clear my throat. "You want me to grab you clothes?"

He laughs again, and a sly smile quirks one side of his mouth. "Just a towel, silly."

I swallow before retreating to the nearby closet to grab a ridiculously soft, seafoam-green towel, and when I march it over him, a long, slender arm is all that reaches for the towel.

Then, I stand there like the complete moron I am and watch his shadow as he rises from the water and pats his delicate upper body dry.

A moment later, he steps out of the tub into the shower area, the towel already wrapped around his waist, turns around, and slips out onto the mat only a couple feet away. He raises an eyebrow at finding me still hovering in the bathroom, but he simply makes sure the low-sitting towel is secure at his hips and runs a hand through his still dripping hair.

But he pauses after a cursory glance over me, and he bites his lip to hide any amusement as he inclines his head. "Is that the reason your showers take so long, Motomiya?"

Fuck.

Jerking off was supposed to solve this problem, but wearing nothing but a pair of knit boxers, my returned "morning wood"—let me at least _pretend_ it's a part of my natural sleep cycle, dammit—is beyond obvious.

Heat rises to my face, but what the hell am I supposed to say to that?

Especially when the mere fact that he looked, that he noticed, that he commented on my erection, causes my arousal to spike and my cock to ache.

Ken smiles serenely before brushing past me and out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading another chapter! I'll hopefully be posting a chapter every few days, especially since they're pretty short. Most of the chapters will be from Daisuke's POV like this one.


	3. Chapter 3

_DAISUKE_

_Friday, 9 a.m._

I've spent the last twenty minutes in front of my full-length mirror, staring down my reflection. Trying not to worry about whatever the hell went on in the bathroom not too long ago. Trying not to panic.

I need to get a grip, dammit.

This is just a normal day, and nothing strange has happened this morning. I haven't spent the last couple hours fantasizing about my best friend, and he definitely wasn't flirting with me in the bathroom.

Oh, fuck.

Was Ken flirting with me this morning?

Because if he was flirting with me, if there's actually the potential he's interested in being more than we are now, that changes things.

Dammit!

Stop getting distracted, and stop getting worked up over nothing.

I flirt with Ken all the time. If he were interested, he'd reciprocate with more than blushing and stammering, right? Because he's been doing that since we were eleven years old. If he were actually receptive, it wouldn't be so damn one-sided.

For him to suddenly jump on the offense makes no sense. What the hell is going through his head?

When I finally emerge from my bedroom again, mostly dressed for my lunch shift at the ramen shop, decidedly less sexually frustrated than when I went into it, there's a warm scent drifting from the kitchen, but something about it's off.

Ken is at the stove, his bottom lip tethered between his teeth, brow furrowed at his pot. "Why isn't it working?" he grumbles. "This isn't supposed to be that hard."

I sidle up beside him, determined to play things cool, and glance toward the stove before catching his eye. "Whatchya making?"

He shoots me a scowl.

But a quick survey of the scene makes it pretty obvious: A bag of rice and a few jars of pickled plums and apricots sit on the counter nearby—he's making rice porridge.

Another glance, and I already know why his hard work is a dud. Inside his pot, the rice is mushy, but not particularly porridgey.

"You were supposed to turn the heat down as soon as it came to a boil, Ken." I try to suppress my amusement—especially when he sends me that deep glare—but he's just too cute when he tries to cook things. He's really terrible at it.

I mean, rice porridge isn't difficult to make, even if it's a bit time-consuming.

"How long did you let it keep boiling on medium high?" I raise an eyebrow when all he does is glare again. "Don't get mad at me. You're the one who doesn't know how to make rice porridge, Ken."

Pouting, he plops the lid back on the pot and turns the burner off. Then, he turns his back on the stove and crosses his arms—over his bare chest. Apparently, during the time I was definitely not hiding and panicking in my bedroom, all Ken has managed to put on is a pair of dark gray boxers and an untied robe that ends mid-thigh. His hair, dry now, is doing this weird curl thing by his ear.

It's weird. By the time the sun rises, Ken is always fully dressed and ready for the day. He rarely walks around in even a set of pajamas, let alone his underwear.

Not that I'm complaining.

"I'm sure it'll taste fine even if it's a little thick." I move closer and grab the spoon to stir the porridge. It might also be burned on the bottom.

Laughter bubbles from my mouth before I can prevent it, but another deep glare puts me in my place.

I stifle the chuckles as I move in front of him and lay my hands on his shoulders. "It's okay if you're not very good at this. You know that, right?"

Ken's glare focuses on the floor, but his pout grows more pronounced. A soft pink has spread across his cheeks, warming his normally pale skin. I'd want to strangle him if he wouldn't so goddamn cute like this.

Besides, this is the Ken I know. Shy, adorable Ken who blushes every time I compliment him or stand closer than is strictly a reasonable friendship distance.

I step closer, nestling one foot between his slightly spread legs, and poke his nose to draw his attention. "You want me to throw something together really quick?"

His eyes trail up my body—I fight off a shiver—and his mouth twists into a frown. "You don't have time before your shift, do you?"

"I could make you an omelet," I add with a shrug. "Speaking of work, since when do you have Fridays off?"

He shakes his head, and his blue-violet eyes finally shift to meet my gaze. "The office is closed today, remember? This is my long weekend."

I nod.

It sounds familiar. Mostly, I remember talking to Fujita-sensei about shifting my schedule so I had most of the weekend off to spend time with him. After my shift today, we'll both be here for the next two days straight, no obligations but to each other.

I'd be lying if I said that doesn't scare the shit out of me right now.

"So?" I ask after a moment.

Ken lifts an eyebrow, but his pout has mostly disappeared.

"Omelet?" I suggest. "Or something else quick before I have to head out?" I hesitate but lift my hand to smooth the curls by his ear—it's everyday sort of thing I'd do. "You're going to need a haircut soon."

His cheeks light up, pink spreading across his smooth skin. "Actually, I was thinking of growing it out again."

I cock an eyebrow and struggle to hide the pleasure from my tone. "Really?"

His blush increases, emboldening me.

My fingers thread through his soft hair and slide out to the ends, and a soft gasp escapes his mouth. "I kind of miss it. You looked really pretty with the long hair."

When I meet his eyes again, they're wide, and his cheeks are a bright pink now.

Uh, perhaps a little _too_ bold.

I release his hair and clear my throat. "You hungry? Food, right?"

He nods.

Without another word, I move to the fridge to grab the eggs and other ingredients, and Ken moves out of the way to give me space to work, watching from afar. I chop veggies, shred cheese, and scramble eggs while the skillet heats up, and when I gather everything by the stove, I try to alleviate the strange tension in the air.

"How much do you know about making an omelet?" I throw behind me.

"You've got to break some eggs, right?" Two lanky arms encircle my waist, hands clasping just above my belt, and Ken rests his chin on my shoulder. "Isn't that how the saying goes?"

My body tenses.

Ken never initiates touching, despite obviously enjoying the affection.

Then, as his words set in, I laugh, my chest shaking, and lean my head back. My eyes dart toward him, but I immediately shift my focus back to the hot skillet. "Yeah, something like that." I clear my throat. "I'm off work around three. What do you want to do tonight? Any fun plans?"

Ken hums, the vibrations sending a pleasant thrill through my shoulder and neck. "Something relaxing. Maybe a movie." And he buries his face in the crook of my neck, then holds extra still while I flip the omelet.

I nod, movement stiff. "That sounds nice."

He releases a soft sigh, and the hairs on my neck bristle as his hot exhalation permeates my clothes. "I want to choose this time," he murmurs.

"Yeah, okay…"

There's something inherently sexual about the way his speech and breath feel against my skin, and fuck, I'd probably agree to anything he asks right now.

I blink to clear my vision, then curse under my breath and flick off the burner. The omelet is just starting to brown on the bottom when I slide it onto the plate—it could be worse, but I shouldn't have been distracted in the first place.

"You know," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "we have this whole weekend—I should show you how to cook something. That way you're not utterly helpless."

Ken leans back with a scoff. "I'm not helpless, Motomiya."

"Food's ready." I take the opportunity to pull out of his grasp. "And I need to head out."

When I look back, he has a pensive frown on his face, but he says again, "I'm not helpless." His words are softer this time, less accusatory.

I sigh and step close again, drawing his attention with a finger under his chin. "It's okay, Ken." I offer him a small smile that swiftly transitions into a full-blown, conspiratorial grin. "I like how much you need me."

A blush spreads across his cheeks, but he holds my gaze with an intense look in his blue-violet eyes.

Whatever he's trying to communicate, I'm missing the meaning.

I swallow, mouth suddenly dry, and step back. "I have to head to work. Can't be late."

By the time I have my shoes on by the door, Ken is sitting on the couch with his omelet and a pleased smile on his soft features as he flips on the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	4. Chapter 4

_DAISUKE_

_Friday, 4 p.m._

I take the steps up to our apartment two at a time, tired from work but body roaring with anxious energy. Fujita-sensei lost his patience with me a few times—which is rare, honest—because I kept spacing out, but once the lunch rush hit, I didn't have time to be distracted. But now that work has ended? 

Yeah, my brain won't shut off.

Considering how the morning went, I have no idea what to expect when I get home. Will it be the shy, sweet Ken who greets me? Or the cool, confident Ken who may or may not be flirting with me?

Okay, obviously, they're both Ken, but normally, when he shows his confidence, it's about kicking my ass on the soccer field or his latest test score performance—it's certainly not about me having a hard-on.

The door is unlocked when I try the knob, and I push it open.

A blast of upbeat holiday music hits me in the face, and slightly pained, I slip off my shoes and jacket and move into the living room to spot Ken up on the couch, one knee digging into the top, the other foot up on the armrest to steady himself as he dangles a string of white lights over a hook—the same hooks we used during last year's Christmas season. It's not even December yet, but the light displays are already open across the country, and Ken's always had a soft spot for the beautiful illuminations.

I pause at the opposite wall to check out his progress.

White and blue lights line half the room, and he has a stack, lit up and ready to hang, on the couch near his feet. The painting of Hoteiosho is out of storage too; the monk grins at me from the far right wall in his nice red robes.

Ken, too, is a sight to see, straddling the couch, his strong legs, despite his narrow frame, accentuated by his white skinny jeans. My eyes follow the natural lines to the apex of those strong legs…and pause there for a moment, perhaps longer than necessary.

Oh, hell, definitely longer than necessary.

Ken has a great ass. Damn near perfect. And I rarely get this nice and uninhibited a view.

His stiff indigo dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, doesn't look bad either. Not that that's a surprise. Ken has always had great style—sleek, classy, and downright sexy. He should be on the cover of a magazine, not getting his master's in psych and criminology.

He must've gone somewhere while I was at work, because he usually dresses more casually at home.

Not that I'm complaining.

He stretches to reach the next hook without losing his balance, and I cock my head to follow the movement. He curses under his breath when he can't reach it, then scoots his knee over, and his foot slips off the armrest. His hand latches on to the couch, grabbing for purchase.

I dash across the distance and wrap my hands around his hips to steady him. "Careful…"

He gasps and nearly topples over. "God, Motomiya, don't scare me like that," he snaps, loud over the music.

"Well, you'd never be able to hear me over this racket, would you?"

Ken slides down to the cushion and twists, resting a hand on my shoulder, then reaches for the remote on the end table. He doesn't have to face the entertainment system to turn the volume down so we can hear each other without yelling. "Sorry," he says, much softer now, his hand still clutching my shoulder.

Not that I want to let him go yet.

"You going to finish these lights?" I ask, nodding toward the nearest hooks and the tangled light string. "I can make sure you don't hurt yourself."

He smiles, squeezing my shoulder, then the smile shifts to a little smirk. "My white knight, always coming to my rescue."

A flush rises to my cheeks, and I stutter for a moment before falling silent.

I'm not sure what exactly is knightly about me supporting him when it's at least fifty percent an excuse to get close to his perfect ass. Not that he needs to know that.

Ken releases a soft laugh at my utter failure, but his eyes squint in that natural affectionate way he sometimes has, and I let it slide. When he returns to hanging the lights, taking a minute to untangle the mess from his slip-up, I keep a hand on his hip, ready in case he starts to fall again.

"I was thinking," I say slowly as he shifts on the cushion, pressing forward to reach another hook. "I'm gonna show you how to cook something."

He glances back, a sleek eyebrow raised. "Right now?"

My mouth twists into a frown. "Hmm, probably tomorrow. We need to go shopping first."

"You're not just going to show me how to properly make rice porridge?" Amusement tinges his voice.

I laugh. "That'd only take a minute—you just need to adjust the heat at the right time. Where's the fun in that?"

He scoffs but doesn't look back from his work. "So you want to show me something elaborate I won't be able to replicate on my own? I don't see how that would be helpful, Motomiya."

"Maybe," I say, firmer now, "it should be more fun than helpful, Ichijouji. We've been friends for twelve years—I can't believe I still have to teach you that."

Ken pauses, a hand pressed to the wall, then he hooks up the last bit of white lights, and leans back into me. In one swift movement, he slips down onto the floor beside me, his back warm against my chest, head on my shoulder, my hand still on his hip.

I start to pull back, but his hand covers mine, holding me in place.

Then, he turns to me and rests his palm on my chest, a serious look in his eyes. "Oh, Motomiya," he murmurs, "don't you know everything is more fun when I'm with you?"

Heat rises to my cheeks, and a pleasant warmth spreads through my body. "Of course it is," I say. "I'm an incredibly fun person."

He rolls his eyes, but amusement tugs his mouth into a small smile. "An incredibly conceited person too."

I chuckle.

We both know he doesn't mean that. He knows better than anyone how much I've struggled with self-confidence, how much of my self-assurance is a facade—because he was the number one person who helped.

He may have been the Kaiser when we met, but he was also the first person who believed in me, even at age eleven. And when we finally became friends, his complete and utter support, understanding, and trust in _me_, the incompetent screwup, is what helped me grow into the person I needed to be for us to kick BelialVamdemon's ass and save the Digital World.

"So?" I say.

He just smiles at me for a moment. "Shopping in the morning?"

And I grin.

Ken saw me for who I am and believed in me without question, and I have no intention to ever let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well, that turned out fluffier than I intended...


	5. Chapter 5

_DAISUKE_

_Friday, 10 p.m._

Normally, I'm all for horror movies. Normally, I'm the one who has to convince Ken—he continually insists he doesn't see the point in watching them, that the gory ones are over-the-top and ridiculous. To be fair, he also insists they never scare him, and we both know that's a blatant lie. 

But tonight is not a normal night: For the first time ever, Ken picked a horror movie all on his own.

Worse, I can't even focus on the damn movie.

Because Ken is plastered to my side, clutching my shirt like it's going to protect him from the vengeful yurei on the screen, his breath hot against my arm as he buries his face in my shoulder. I'm struggling between amusement at his insistence he's not scared and arousal at his body flush against mine.

I clear my throat, trying to settle the unease in my stomach. "You know, it's been years since I saw this."

He nods against my shoulder, but he stays close, not daring to look up at.

Actually, now that I think about it, this is a movie I made him watch when we were kids. He stayed over for a sleepover during the summer break, and I brought out all the classics: _Onibaba_, _Kuroneko_, _Ju-On: The Grudge_, _Battle Royale_, and of course, _Ringu_—the film Ken put on tonight. I hadn't expected us to watch all the movies, but once we got started—_Ringu_ was my first choice for the evening—Ken was too scared to go to sleep, so he just kept insisting we keep watching until we finished the last one at five thirty in the morning…and then he just kept talking because he refused to admit he was too scared to go to sleep. That was probably the first night I'd ever heard Ken talk so damn much.

I already had a bit of a thing for him by then, but that night solidified my feelings. After a night of lying close to him while he insisted he wasn't scared—while also burying himself under the blankets on the floor—I wasn't tired at all. Ken eventually passed out a little before eight and slept for a couple hours, but I was high from the close contact and the strange, disjointed conversation.

With a small smile, I allow my arm to fall around his narrow frame and tug him even closer.

Who knew Ken was sentimental about something like this? Why else would he choose to watch _Ringu_? Why else would he willingly subject himself to something he's always disliked?

He buries his face in my neck and takes a shaky breath. "Is it over yet?"

My chest trembles with laughter, and I rest my cheek against the top of his head. "There's still like forty minutes left. And what are you complaining about? You're the one who picked this movie."

Ken grumbles against my collarbone, indignant.

I'd laugh at him some more, but his sound sends a pleasant vibration through my body, and my fist clenches in the thin material of his gray T-shirt.

He shifts to look at the screen before twisting and turning to see it fully. Apparently, the creepy scene has ended, so Ken doesn't need me to protect him anymore—but then he settles back against me, even closer than before, his eyes focusing on the television, and I release an indulgent sigh and hold him tight.

Not long later, Ken jumps and buries his face in my chest again.

This time, I really can't help but laugh and poke him in the side good-naturedly—or bad-naturedly, considering how he startles and digs his fingers into my chest.

"Daisuke!" he yelps, leveling me with a glare.

I can't help the wicked grin at his reaction. "Really, Ichijouji, you make it too easy. If you weren't so damn entertaining, you wouldn't have anything to worry about." His over-the-top reaction has always been the best part of teasing him, of messing with him.

Ken's glare doesn't relax, but I fake a melodramatic yawn and turn back to the movie, daring him to do something about it.

Of course he takes the bait.

Few people can bring out Ken's competitive side—at least, off the soccer field—and I'm proud to say I'm one of them.

I grit my teeth when a finger jabs at my ribs. It tickles more than it hurts, but he knows that. That's exactly why he chose that location.

This time, I don't take my eyes off the screen as I poke him just under the ribs.

He yelps, even though he knew it was coming.

His retaliation is a hard pinch.

"Hey!"

He just sends me a little smirk. "Something wrong, Motomiya?"

Uh-oh. That's not good.

But that's what makes this so fun.

I shake my head and turn back to the movie, but having my arm wrapped around his shoulders makes it easy to flick his opposite ear.

His body tenses against me, but he doesn't complain otherwise. Or do anything else.

Five minutes later, just when I'm starting to relax again, a finger prods gently at my hip before sliding all the way up my side at a tantalizingly slow pace.

I inhale sharply, gasping at the inherently sensual touch.

A quick glance to my left reveals a proud little smile on his face as he focuses on a movie neither of us have been paying attention to for at least ten minutes.

My eyes narrow.

Well, if we're going to play dirty, you'll get no complaints from me.

I release a soft sigh, forcing my body to relax, then yank him closer and shove my hand up his loose tee to tickle his ribs. Even as he collapses in my arms in a fit of angry giggles, he retaliates, setting his own fingers on my ribs.

I won't often admit this, but it might be possible that I'm way more ticklish than Ken is. I refuse to accept this weakness. No matter how many times he shoves it in my face. Or ribs, as it were.

His laughter becomes stronger, victorious, as he gains the upper hand, but he should know better.

If there's one thing he should know about me, one thing _anyone_ should know about it, it's that I don't know when to quit. I'm too damn stubborn to give in. And that applies whether we're facing an evil Digimon or going head to head in a tickle war.

His face is close—too close if I really thought about it—and I throw myself forward and sweep my tongue from his jaw, up the side of his face, to his forehead.

He shoves me away.

Success!

"Ugh, that's gross, Dai," he snaps, glaring at me.

I grin. "You started it."

His mouth ticks upward just a tinge, but he fixes it before it turns into an actual smile. "Technically, _you_ did."

I shrug. "Semantics."

Ken scoffs. "Where did you learn that word, Motomiya?"

I shoot him a glare. "I listen when you talk." Even if I don't understand what he's saying, it's nice to listen to his voice.

Amusement tugs at his lips, but it's short-lived. All too soon, his mouth twists into a smirk—more defined and determined than any of the evening's previous smirks.

Shit.

That's a bad sign. A really bad sign.

I try to scoot away, but Ken's competitive side rears its ugly head. The next thing I know, he has my shoulders shoved into the cushion, my head twisted uncomfortably against the armrest, and Ken sits atop my lap like it's his throne.

"Really, Motomiya," he says, his voice high and smug, "you make it too easy." He leans over me, that sexy little smirk in place, his hands resting firmly on the armrest above my head, and his body shifts pleasantly on my lap. "Now, how to punish you?"

Oh, fuck.

This is not good.

If I don't figure out a way out of this, with his position and with that commanding tone, things are liable to get awkward fast. Especially if he keeps moving like that.

Thankfully, he doesn't weigh much and he's shown me plenty of judo moves throughout our friendship.

I give him one final moment—one mostly composed of him looking downright sexy while plotting my demise—then capture his right arm between us, trap his foot with my leg, and push my hips upward, sending us careening off the couch. We roll around the floor for a minute, each trying to gain the upper hand, but when it comes to sturdiness and hardiness, I have him beat every day of the week.

When we finally come to a stop, I have him flush against the floor, wrists pinned above his head, legs flattened under my weight. He's panting, cheeks bright red, and he stares up at me, eyes wide and dilated.

Yeah, this position isn't any better.

In fact, I'd wager my growing erection is a lot harder to hide in this position. And it doesn't help when Ken looks up at me with those big eyes and wets his lips with his entrancing tongue, pink despite the darkened room.

"Are you going to punish me now, Daisuke?" His voice is husky and quiet despite the loud movie.

How the hell does he manage to look this good?

I swallow, trying to wet my suddenly dry mouth and throat. I can't pull my eyes away from his.

There's nothing about Ken that isn't beautiful and sexy and perfect, and there's nothing I want to do more than press against him and kiss him with every fiber of my being, to worship every inch of his body.

The look on his face doesn't help either. He stares up at me with the deepest blue-violet eyes, like he can see into my very soul. Even now, I can feel our hearts beating as one.

His eyes dart down to my mouth, then back.

My breath hitches.

My supporting arms quiver.

I drop to my elbows, cutting the distance in half. "Ken," I murmur, dragging a hand to his cheek. My thumb traces the edge of his bottom lip, and with a shaky breath, his eyes flutter shut.

I want more than anything to kiss him, but trapping him so he can't escape is hardly an appropriate way to demonstrate my feelings. Besides, the last thing I should do is get caught up in the moment, especially since pressuring him into something he may not be ready for—may never be ready for—is the last thing I want to do. I mean, it's been twelve years—if he were interested, he should've said something by now. I should know.

I bite my lip, push away, and collapse onto the floor next to him with a long shaky sigh.

For a long moment, Ken lies beside me, his eyes still shut, breath ragged; then, he pushes up and stalks into the bathroom. The door closes harshly behind him.

Shit.

I drag myself back onto the couch and force my eyes to focus on the movie, but for the life of me, I can't register any of what's happening.

By the time he comes out, the credits are almost finished.

He doesn't bother coming back into the living room; instead, he downs a glass of water in the kitchen and says, "I'm heading to bed," before going to his room.

Dammit, this is not how the night was supposed to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting a little more dramatic now, aren't they? How long can these two adorable idiots stay idiots? Stay tuned!
> 
> Thursday is Thanksgiving in the US, and I'm traveling for a few days, so I may not be able to post as soon as I normally do.
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I wasn't intending to update while on my family vacation, but I couldn't resist.

_DAISUKE_

_Saturday, 2 a.m._

"Aaaahh…"

My eyes ache, but I force them open and eye the digital clock on the kitchen counter.

Fuck, it's only been an hour since I last looked at the time. Haven't done more than doze for the last few hours. Didn't even bother going to bed.

"Mmmmm…no, no…"

But Ken's having a nightmare, and even miserable and half-dead, I can't let him suffer. At least not alone.

I move on autopilot, staggering down the hallway, hand clutching the wall for support.

Ken's trembling when I crawl into his bed. Only when I wrap him in my arms and pull him tight against me, his face buried in my chest, do the spasms start to settle.

"Shhhh," I murmur, running my fingers through his silky hair, then down his back in slow deliberate motions. "It's okay now."

He shivers in my arms and presses closer.

I pull back enough to wipe away a couple tears glistening on his cheek and frown at how pink and puffy his eyes are—a sure sign he cried himself to sleep a few hours ago.

My eyes clamp shut; my jaw clenches. "I'm sorry." I'm not sure what exactly I fucked up and I know he's too out of it to hear the apology, but I'm sorry. "I never meant to make you cry."

I take a long breath and tuck his head under my chin. "Everything's okay, I promise. I'll make sure of it." My fingers rub circles down his back until his breathing evens out.

After that, I can finally relax.

*

_Saturday, 7 a.m._

_Thump_, _thump_, _thump_…

A heart throbs deep through my ribs, and it takes a long moment to register it isn't mine. Admittedly, my heart beats to the same rhythm, so it's an easy mistake to make.

I inhale deeply and rub the sleep from my eyes. The world smells like jasmine and rose and sandalwood, and I would know that combination anywhere.

My eyes flash open.

Ken's head rests on my chest, an ear to my heart, his hand under my shirt, fingers grazing my ribs. His body clings to my side, one leg slung over mine.

I hold him tighter, enjoying the unabashed closeness. On the few nights we've shared a bed in the past, Ken has always been pressed firmly against the wall in the morning, as far out of reach as possible. If I woke up every morning with Ken snuggled up to me, I'm pretty sure I could die happy.

For now, nothing will prevent me from enjoying this moment.

My stomach grumbles.

Ugh, I guess I do require food. As much as I want to, I can't stay in bed forever.

Besides, who knows what kind of mood Ken will be in when he wakes up. He probably doesn't even know I'm here, and based on last night, I doubt he'd be too pleased to find me in his bed.

I close my eyes one last time, enjoying a final moment of cuddling before this has to end. Before I have to go back to the reality of being best friends and nothing more.

He releases a deep sigh—

And I take that as my cue to leave before he wakes up.

It takes some skillful maneuvers and finesse—meaning I fall on my ass and nearly drag the sheets and Ken down with me—before I can slip from the bedroom, and after a quick stop in the bathroom, I study the contents of our fridge and pantry.

Maybe if I make breakfast, he'll be in a better mood. He always likes it when I cook breakfast.

I turn on the radio and bounce around the kitchen, gathering ingredients. I start the rice and throw some chicken stock in a pot while chopping up the nori and tofu, then toss the nori in the simmering stock.

There's no sound from Ken's bedroom—odd in itself since he's usually up by now, even on the weekends—but when AKB48's latest single comes on, I twist the knob hard and dance around the kitchen, no longer concerned about the noise.

I shuffle from side to side while whipping together the egg, soy sauce, and mirin, then move on to prep the miso.

The steps and movements are simple, easy, memorized, and my eyes dart across the peninsula to where the living room is still a mess from last night.

Well, as messy as Ken ever allows it. Such a neat freak.

I frown as I study the vacant living room. The table is pushed to the side and the television is still pulled out to the middle of the room for easy viewing.

Honestly, I don't know what the hell happened last night. Or really any of yesterday. Why was Ken acting so weird? He kept switching from strangely, openly affectionate to more distant than normal, and I don't know how I'm supposed to make heads or tails of that.

Don't get me wrong, the guy can be moody as fuck, but yesterday was a special case. I just don't know why.

I slide the tofu and green onions into the broth and stir it together before leaving it to cook more, pausing by the counter.

My mouth tightens into a firm purse.

Something doesn't sit right. Like there's something obvious and important I'm missing, but I can't put my finger on it.

I heave a sigh and turn back to the food.

If it's important, I'll figure it out eventually.

The rice is done now, and I spoon it into bowls and stir in the egg mixture, then leave it to thicken. The miso soup should be about done too.

I pause to study the countertop, then begin to put away all the ingredients.

You know what's funny?

Last night, during that stupid movie neither of us paid attention to after the midway point, I used judo skills he taught me to get out of that painfully awkward mounted position, but Ken didn't use any grappling moves on me once. He definitely could have.

Judo was one of the few activities he continued after he was no longer the Kaiser. Yeah, he had to work his skill level back up to where it had been under the influence of the Dark Seed, but he did—or at least pretty damn close. And once he regained his confidence, he added jiu jitsu to his many talents.

What little I know is from watching all his matches like the amazing friend I am and from us goofing off. I kept getting pissed off when he won our every wrestling game, so he took it upon himself to teach me some throws and escapes. I managed to win a few after that, though I'm still convinced he was just stroking my ego.

His skill is far beyond my level, and we're both well aware of that fact. He could have escaped that mount easily, even with his hands pinned.

Wait.

That means he _chose_ not to. Did he _want_ me to hold him down like that, to straddle him? Why?

Unease settles in my stomach.

Because I can only come up with one reason:

_He wanted me to kiss him._

I fan myself, suddenly overheated from working at the stove.

Okay, yeah, if that's not what he wanted, kissing him would've been a huge, awkward, embarrassing mess, but if it is…fuck, I missed a perfectly good opportunity to kiss Ken and I should be kicking myself.

I've liked him so long I stopped considering any of this possible. The idea that childhood celebrity Ichijouji Ken, even if he's been my best friend for years, could reciprocate my feelings is laughable.

But I don't feel like laughing anymore.

I close my eyes, hands clenched, and struggle to breathe.

"Motomi—"

I jump, suddenly grateful my hands are clamped on the counter's edge instead of holding any of the food.

Behind me, he hesitates, then says, "Daisuke, why is the music so loud?"

I turn my attention to the radio instead of Ken and move over to turn it down. At some point, the station switched songs, probably a few times, but I was far too inside my own head to notice.

"Sorry," I say when it's quieter, finally glancing over my shoulder.

On the opposite side of the peninsula, Ken leans against a nearby wall, heavy eyes watching me, his black hair mussed up on one side in a way that screams nothing short of fucking adorable. Or you know, adorably fuckable. Thankfully, he doesn't look angry or upset, but I'm not taking any chances.

I clear my throat and slide two bowls toward him. "I made breakfast."

He eyes them carefully, then scoots closer to examine the contents: one bowl of miso soup and one of tamago kake gohan. "Thank you," he murmurs, not meeting my gaze, but he accepts the chopsticks and soup spoon with a soft smile and sits on the stool there. He looks oddly peaceful.

I stay in the kitchen while I eat, keeping the distance between us.

For a while, we eat in silence, both picking at the food. Ken always eats slowly, especially in the morning, but I still can't quiet my mind—all I can think are the words _kiss_ and _Ken_ over and over. God, if I keep this up, my brain is going to explode.

Ken takes a quiet spoonful of his miso, then assesses me with freakishly piercing eyes. "You alright, Motomiya? You look shaken."

My reaction is somewhere between shrugging and shaking my head. Yeah, that's real fucking convincing.

But he doesn't push the matter. "Are you still going to show me how to cook today?"

I pause mid-bite, having completely forgotten. "Uh, yeah, sure. We need to go shopping then."

He nods and offers me one of those perfectly sweet Ken smiles that's made me think I'm having a heart attack on multiple occasions.

There aren't many people who earn that particular smile, and like always, I'm honored and pleased to be one of the select few. But unlike every other time, my brain is now going to spend the next twenty minutes dissecting what exactly that smile means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, the song is ["Kibouteki Refrain" (Hopeful Refrain) by AKB48](https://youtu.be/eWnLRboP6LI), which released in late November 2014, which is approximately when this story is set. Yes, it is a J-pop girl band song, and you can't convince me Daisuke wouldn't listen to girl bands. I'm pretty sure he'd enjoy anything with a good beat.
> 
> The breakfast food he makes is a traditional Japanese breakfast: miso soup and tamago kake gohan, which is an egg and rice bowl.


	7. Chapter 7

_DAISUKE_

_Saturday, 9 a.m._

Ken hangs back while I haggle with Aoki-san, but when I join him again, pleased with the price, he doesn't look anything more than curious—mixed with uneasy. To be fair, I've never taken him with me the many times I've been to Tsukiji Market. He doesn't know what to expect. 

"What's up?" I ask, leading the way down the narrow aisle, one hand gripping the cooler.

He frowns but falls into step beside me. "Surely we're not only eating shrimp…"

I release an uncomfortable laugh—I refuse to spoil this. "No time to talk, Ichijouji. We're already running late."

He shoots me a scowl. "You never leave the apartment before nine, Motomiya. It's only just nine now."

I cock an eyebrow. "How would you know? You're off to class by seven."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Finally, I grin. "You'll find out when we're in the kitchen. But to answer your question, we'll stop somewhere on the way home to grab everything else we need."

He nods, eyes distant, then falls silent as we reach another shop, and I pause to examine the display of uni.

Of course, how can I focus my mind on the urchins when Ken stands behind me, shrinking out of the way of the masses, shrinking practically to nonexistence? He's anxious. He hates crowds, but going to the market—the _best_ market, even if it's practically an hour away—is an essential part to making a decent meal.

But that's not all.

I know him well enough after all these years to know that his current state of anxiety isn't only from the busy marketplace. He's been quiet since he got up, and the train ride here was the most awkward experience we've shared in years.

Probably not helped by the fact that I've been struggling not to analyze every look, expression, and word.

We move on.

He walks beside me, steps slow and careful, and I keep pace with him. He keeps sending me contemplative glances, and dear god, I don't know how to interpret that.

By the fifth look, I stop, shifting to the side of the narrow walkway, and turn to him. "Okay, seriously, what's wrong?"

Ken raises an eyebrow, pausing not far away. "I feel like that's my line."

I frown.

He's right. Something's obviously bothering me. No matter how hard I try, I can't hide my emotions—not from Ken, never from Ken.

But how in the world do you ask your best friend if they have a crush on you?

If I'm too direct, I'll scare him off. And if I'm too indirect, he won't even realize what I'm asking—or worse, he'll know what I mean but intentionally avoid properly answering because my indirectness gave him an out. Plus the whole thing where even my indirect is too direct for most people. And Ken…well, Ken is all subtlety.

Instead, I swallow down my questions and say, "What should we do after this?"

Ken frowns at me, then lets his eyes scan the busy marketplace. "I get the feeling you have a lot more shops you want to stop at, and then we'll need to take the food home. Plus, you said we'll stop for the rest of the ingredients somewhere else."

I shrug. "I meant after all that, Ichijouji."

He keeps his eyes averted. "Are we cooking for lunch or dinner?"

I pause, considering. "Dinner. We'll probably need to grab lunch on our way home."

He raises an eyebrow—this trip is probably turning out to be a lot longer than he'd hoped. "Okay. So what do you want to do?"

With an irritated sigh, I set the cooler on the ground beside me and cross my arms.

Looks like this conversation is going nowhere fast.

I hate this tension between us. He's anxious, I'm anxious, and I can't figure out why. Okay, I know why _I'm_ anxious, but is he still upset about last night? Or is he anxious because something's bothering me?

It certainly doesn't help that I'm still processing everything.

But I guess there's no time like the present.

"Ken…"

Finally, he looks at me again, eyes wide at my strangely soft tone.

"Why have you been acting so weird?"

He studies me. "What do you mean?" He chooses his words with as much care and precision as his eyes watch me.

"All of yesterday…I don't—"

I frown.

Can't fuck this up, dammit.

"Something's different, but you won't talk to me. I just—I want you to know, you can say anything to me." I reach for him and thread our fingers together.

A pink flush rises to his cheeks, and it spurs me on.

"There's nothing you could say or do that would make me unhappy. Just being together—with you—makes me happy."

Eyes wide but thoughtful, he smiles under his blush, then slowly steps back, though he allows me to keep his hand. "Thank you, Daisuke. It means a lot to hear you say that."

All I can do is wait.

But when his eyes meet mine again, his kind smile says it all: no announcement, no confession, no nothing. Instead, he says, "We could play some games tonight. Card games, chess, Go…"

There's nothing predatory in his face, but I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "The last time you convinced me to play Go, you handed my ass to me in less than fifteen minutes."

Ken gives a half-shrug, not even remotely apologetic. "You refused all my attempts to help with your strategy."

I try to refrain from grinning at the teasing sound in his voice and fail horribly. Because that means I've broken through to him, gotten him to settle, and the uncomfortable, abnormal tension fades away.

"Cards," I agree firmly. "Poker. And I get to decide what we do once we're home."

His mouth twists up in amusement, but he nods.

I grab the cooler, tug on his hand, still entwined with mine, and lead him down the narrow lane. "Come on then. We need to buy some salmon, some tuna, maybe some red snapper. Oh, and let's not forget the roe."

He follows behind me, hopelessly dragged along but thankfully still smiling. "What are we making, Motomiya? Why do we need fish eggs?"

"Why would I want to ruin the surprise?" I call over my shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the later update. I was barely able to work on anything during family vacation. The next chapter will be up soon, though, as it's mostly written.


	8. Chapter 8

_DAISUKE_

_Saturday, 1 p.m._

By the time we reach the park, Ken doesn't look any more pleased with the idea than the moment when, after we put away the groceries, I chucked the soccer ball at his head and he barely managed to catch it before it smacked him in the face. He argued, he complained, he cajoled, and yes, he had a point—it did rain most of the train ride home, though the rain stopped before we had to walk through it—but I didn't relent.

"When has a little rain ever been a problem?" I asked him. "Are you afraid of getting a tiny bit muddy? Are you that much of a clean freak, Ichijouji?"

I wasn't surprised when he bristled. "Not afraid." But then he paused and admitted quietly, "I'm out of practice, though."

Which is all too true, and perhaps a large reason I want to play a little one-vee-one.

We played against each other from that first all-important match in fifth grade till high school graduation, and winning against Tamachi was rare. In a one-vee-one against Ichijouji Ken, Tamachi's number one striker? Nearly impossible.

But he hasn't played since high school, aside from an occasional casual match—not even once a month.

I at least play a weekly game with a few guys, though it's laid-back and most of them aren't enough competition. I at least have some practice still.

Hell, if there's even a tiny chance I can kick his ass, I'm gonna take it.

So no, I didn't relent, no matter how much he complained.

And I won't relent now that we're here either.

"It's called muscle memory, Ichijouji," I say as I pause at the edge of the pitch beside him.

His mouth tightens into a scowl, but he doesn't look at me. "Just because you play a casual game every week doesn't mean you'll manage to beat me."

I cock an eyebrow. "Care to put that to the test then?"

Ken smirks, finally meeting my eyes. "And what do I get when I win, Motomiya?"

Excellent.

"Depends." I toss the ball up in the air and catch it with one hand. "What do you want?"

His blue-violet eyes study me carefully while determining his response, and he settles on a cool but dangerous sort of confidence. "You'll find out when I win."

I scoff, but I'm practically buzzing with energy. "Well, I already know exactly what I want when I win, and I'm not telling you till I do."

This kind of tension is exactly what I live for. I thrive on it.

Most of the time, Ken retreats into himself, hiding away from the world, especially around people he doesn't know well. He's decent with the other Chosen now—talks to them more openly, smiles and laughs more often—but no one else draws out _this_ Ken like I do.

This Ken is confident, competitive, even eager. He's cool and collected and smug, he's occasionally cruel but in a good-natured way, and he likes to win. Honestly, this Ken sometimes frightens me. He gets my blood boiling, my heart thumping at full force, sends some positively perverse thoughts through my head. He's the Ken most reflective of his Kaiser persona, but it's not the same, _he's_ not the same. Because unlike the Kaiser, he has a warm, hearty laugh, he cracks jokes, he teases, and through it all, he remains the kind, pensive, intelligent, sweet Ken he always is.

"I guess we have no choice then," he says, flippant, and begins a determined march toward the center of the field.

My eyes gravitate toward his perfect ass as he stalks across the soggy grass. He's wearing his high school soccer uniform—it is the most appropriate attire for the occasion, and it's tight enough not to get in the way. It's honestly impressive the thing still fits him after five years. But it's not like he's gained weight—only grown a few more centimeters.

Okay.

Subconsciously, I may have suggested this because I wanted to see Ken in uniform again.

Fucking worth it.

And here's hoping I don't get too distracted by the spectacular view. Because I want to win.

I have _plans_ for if I win, dammit.

He walks with the confidence that I'll follow, and he's right about that. But I would follow Ken anywhere.

Before I'm even halfway across the pitch, he's at the center, and he begins his typical warm-up routine: hip flexors, calf stretch, quad stretch, heel stretch, and a few modified versions of his normal stretches to avoid sitting on the muddy ground.

I stumble to a stop the moment he slowly bends over, one ankle crossed over the other, arms down, hands flattening on the wet grass in front of his feet. Because the view of his pert ass couldn't possibly be better. And dear god, that flexibility could be put to some good use under more intimate circumstances.

Yeah, I'm fucked.

I force my feet to move again, slowly approaching, and drop the ball on the ground when I reach him.

Ken throws a terse glance my way as he hooks an arm behind his head in a simple shoulder stretch. "You ready to get your ass handed to you, Motomiya?"

I spend half a second more staring at him.

But it's time to get my head in gear or I'm going to lose. And losing isn't an option today. I want to implement my plan tonight, and winning this match may be exactly what I need to get the ball rolling.

"Don't get too cocky, Ichijouji," I snap and begin to do a few stretches of my own. "I won't let you win so easily."

Of course, that also requires me to pretend I'm not deathly curious what would happen if he won, what he wants from me.

He smiles. "You never make anything easy."

I frown, not quite sure what he means, but he starts doing a round of jumping jacks before I can even consider whether I should ask. And then I'm staring again.

No.

I won't let him distract or confuse me, dammit.

Once we're both properly warmed up, we decide victory goes to the first to score five goals, and per usual, Ken devotes himself wholly to the task at hand.

He snags the ball immediately, and I rush to keep up with him. His long legs and low mass make him fast, but he's not the same kid running circles around my entire team anymore.

In high school, we were much more evenly matched—partially because no one knew better than me how to anticipate Ken's thoughts and moves. If we'd played on a team together, we would've been in complete sync, able to predict each other and play off of the other's strengths. But as opponents…well, I'm pretty sure our coaches thought we spent too much time trying to outdo each other than actually win the game.

He scores the first goal, but I get the ball next, dribbling it toward the opposite goal. This time, he chases me. By the time he scores a second shot, I've managed three goals.

A proud grin spreads across my mouth when we meet at the center again, but Ken's eyes narrow in a way that's strikingly familiar.

In a way that makes me fear for my life.

And my sanity.

Grass stains and little flecks of mud spread up his body, primarily on his shoes and shins, but there's even the occasional streak on his arm.

I gulp.

Mud has never looked so damn attractive.

He snatches the ball immediately and, to no one's surprise, levels the playing field with another score before I can do anything but follow in his wake.

Dammit.

Five years since he's played a competitive soccer game, and he's still this fucking good. Muscle memory is part of it—he did play for over a decade—but honestly, I attribute it to what I call Ken Magic. Even without the Dark Seed, Ken remains the most intelligent and talented person I know.

Koushiro-san, ever the logical one, insists that's technically incorrect. That while, yes, Ken is very intelligent and skilled, his IQ isn't what it was as the Kaiser. That I'm biased because Ken is so important to me.

True or not—and I guess Koushiro-san is generally trustworthy on these matters—I don't care.

Ken is smart, kind, patient, ambitious, talented at everything, and absolutely beautiful. Of course I'm biased. How could I _not_ be biased? He's practically perfect, no matter how dark his past is or how much it still bothers him, and I have no problems explaining that to anyone.

But I have serious problems with him winning this match.

"I thought you were going to make this a challenge, Motomiya," he says when we meet at centerfield again.

I shrug. "Alright, I gave you that last one. You looked pretty upset." And you know, I was too busy ogling him to focus. "Besides, I like the challenge of whooping your ass when the score is this close."

He glares, but it gets my point across. "Don't you dare let me win out of pity, Motomiya." His voice is dangerously low.

"I wouldn't dare. I want this too much."

Plus, I'm fairly certain he would murder me if he ever legitimately believed I took it easy on him.

We each only have two points left to win, but I'm not so sure of my victory now. Still, this is a better shot at beating Ken in a one-vee-one than I've ever had before, and I managed to beat him a few times during his prime.

Besides, what better way to interrogate him about the last thirty-six hours than to do it under the pretense of a bet? If I win this, I intend to launch a full investigation into his recent behavior, into his...potential feelings.

Not that he needs to know that.

He takes the ball, but I dart around him and kick it in the opposite direction, right between his legs. He stumbles and we collide not even a second later, all hands and legs and feet and mud and sweat.

Ken lands on top of me, blue-violet eyes staring into my soul. My breath catches at our close proximity. Heat rises to my cheeks. And he…

He slips off easily before running after the ball.

It takes a moment to collect myself, mostly because my back is now coated in grass and mud. And stupid Ken didn't fare nearly so bad—he has a couple muddle, scraped knees and shins for his fall.

By the time I chase after him, he's scored his fourth goal.

Shit.

This is going to be closer than I thought.

But I always perform better when the chips are down. I need to score twice before letting him get a final goal.

And under the circumstances, I don't mind playing a little dirty.

We start again at centerfield, and this time, I hesitate just long enough for him to dribble the ball to the side to pass me. I spin with him so we're side to side, then trace a finger down his spine—Ken staggers, and I kick the ball with my heel, sending it flying between us and toward my goal.

I dart after it before he has a chance to turn around—or worse, retaliate.

Once I'm close enough, Ken on my heels, a quick instep kick is all it takes to level the score again.

One goal away.

"You cheated," he snaps as we march back to centerfield.

I laugh. "It's not like I tripped you or even pulled your shirt, Ichijouji. No ref would've called me on that."

He shoots a glare my way. "I don't care if a referee would've let it slide. You used your knowledge of my body against me. That's cheating."

I splutter, nearly dropping the ball.

My _knowledge_ of his _body_?

Okay, I mean, that's technically accurate. But does he really have to say it like that when all he means is that I know how sensitive and ticklish he is and where?

"Come on, Motomiya!" He's five paces ahead, and I scurry to catch up as he snarls, "Next person to score wins, and then I get the bathroom first."

I scowl. "You're going to make me sit in a muddy mess while you take a nice long bath, aren't you?"

"You better not make a mess anywhere while you wait." We reach the center, and he turns to glare at me. "Let's get this over with already."

With the final ball, Ken is in full-on general mode, nudging and cutting the ball across the pitch diagonally, but I run down the center line to cut him off. I dive close when he reaches midfield, and he tries to evade me with an elastico, but I don't let him shake me off. Determination in his eyes, he glances toward the center and the goal, plotting his next move.

It's a feint.

When he kicks the ball again, it's a scoop turn to send the ball to the left instead, and I'm ready for him, slicing across the space to nudge it back to the right and under my control. He twists to reach me, but I nudge the ball behind me and away from him before darting back, nudging it into the air, and sending it arcing over and around him toward my goal.

Ken releases a low growl, and he's on my heels the moment I catch up to the ball, dribbling it down the field. He drives me toward the edge, cornering me in an attempt to steal the ball back, but I'm not going to let him beat me this time.

I catch the ball with one foot, sliding it to the other with a swift one-eighty spin, then pull the ball with me. Leaving me with enough space to shoot the ball with an instep kick, driving it right into the side netting.

Then, I stumble and fall, body pushed to the ground with a face full of wet grass.

Panting—and practically growling—Ken sits atop my lower back, hands holding my shoulders down. But he doesn't say anything.

I manage to push up enough to breath more than just mud and grass, and once I catch my breath, I try to turn to him. "Something wrong, Ichijouji?" Still can't see more than a scraped and muddy leg.

"Okay, fine, you won." He leans close to my ear, irritation lacing his voice. "What do you want from me?"

The words send a chill down my spine.

Everything.

I want everything from Ken.

But that's not what he means.

I pull my knee up and push off with my center, sending him flying to the ground, flat on his back. I collapse beside him with a deep sigh, eyes staring up at the overcast sky. "Don't you worry about a thing, Ichijouji. You'll find out tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this took longer than I expected because I'm sick and wound up in a soccer/football research hole.
> 
> Anyway, we're just about to the middle of the story. Next chapter is a short one from Ken's POV again. :)


	9. Chapter 9

_KEN_

_Saturday, 3 p.m._

It's later than I originally intended when I finally allow Daisuke to take a shower. The bath was so comfortable, and I was—perhaps—enjoying my revenge a little too much. 

Not that that matters much when his solution tied me into knots. I nearly died on the way to my bedroom—Daisuke had collapsed on his bed, writing in a notebook, his bedroom door ajar, and wearing nothing but a pair of azure boxers, brilliant next to his warm tawny skin. It's an obvious solution to preventing dragging mud everywhere, I suppose, though his spiky hair was still caked with the stuff. I just wasn't prepared. I quickly called out the bathroom was free and hid in my room before he could look my way.

More importantly, though, the long bath gave me time I needed to think.

Now it's his turn to bathe, which gives me the opportunity to get a second opinion.

Daisuke and I have spent almost every waking moment together this weekend, even after last night's disaster, and I haven't had the chance to properly think or plan anything since last night. When I was far too upset to come to any conclusions.

And second opinions?

Well, Hikari's texted me a couple times to ask how it's going, but I've hardly been in a position to properly talk about it. The last thing I need is for Motomiya "I Have No Understanding of Personal Space" Daisuke to steal my phone while I'm texting his fifth-grade crush about my feelings for him.

_Can you talk?_ I text her, eyes darting toward the bathroom.

If all he does it shower, it won't take him long, but it's still enough for a quick chat. If I'm lucky, he'll decide to hop into the bath too.

She doesn't even bother texting me back; my phone rings before I can set it down.

"Moshi moshi," I say when I answer, stirring my steaming oolong tea.

But Hikari breezes past pleasantries. "How are things going? Has anything happened? What's Daisuke-kun's reaction?"

A smile quirks at my mouth, but it fades quickly. "Oh, Hikari, I don't think this is working. This whole weekend has been a disaster."

She hesitates, and when she speaks, her voice is cautious. "What do you mean, Ken?"

"I spent all day yesterday overtly flirting with him, and he just kept giving me these looks—like I was going insane and he had no idea how to fix it. Am I really so bad at this he doesn't realize I'm flirting with him?"

On the other line, she sighs. "Is that all?"

I scowl. "Why are you relieved? I said this is a disaster."

"You've never been touchy-feely or flirtatious, Ken," she reminds me, her voice soothing. "He needs time to adjust and to realize what the change in your behavior means, okay? Don't you dare give up yet."

I slump down in the seat, adjusting the short, indigo and ice-blue kimono so it covers both my thighs. "He almost kissed me last night," I admit in a quiet voice. "He started to lean in. Or at least I thought he did. And I definitely felt, uh, something—_you know_." Even now, a blush rises to my cheeks. "But then he just rolled away, and he's acted like nothing happened."

I suppose, technically, nothing did happen.

"If he started to lean in, he's interested," she says, her voice soft, reassuring. Then, she hardens. "And really, Ken, we're twenty-three—you should be able to say the word _erection_ out loud."

A scowl tugs at my lips, but I force myself to move past her final words. "If he's interested, why didn't he kiss me? I was practically throwing myself at him—even literally at one point." I heave a sigh, fingers toying with the silk tie at my waist. "Besides, being _interested_ in someone isn't the same as having feelings for them."

"Even if he's _only_ interested in you physically—which I highly doubt—it's not that difficult to develop feelings for someone, especially someone you're already so close with."

"If you're so damn sure of his feelings, why don't you date him?" I snap, then take a long drink of my tea, ignoring the way it scalds my mouth and throat.

Hikari has the gall to laugh. "I had my chances to date Daisuke-kun, but you know better than anyone that he stopped having feelings for me a long time ago."

I sigh, nudging the cup away. "I know."

"Talk to me, Ken. It's not going to get better unless you get it off your chest."

"When he liked you," I begin in a small voice, "he was so vocal about it. Everyone knew. Motomiya isn't exactly subtle." My eyes dart toward the bathroom, where the shower is still running—he's probably having a hell of a time getting the mud out of his hair. "And that's been true the few times he crushed on someone in high school. He talked about them, about you, all the time, but…"

She clicks her tongue. "But he doesn't talk about you like that?"

"Well, no."

"Who would he talk to? You're his best friend and his roommate. You're always the person he turns to for this sort of thing, so if he has feelings for you, who is he supposed to talk to?" She pauses. "I mean, who did you talk to?"

I frown.

That's fair. Hikari was the first person I openly talked to about my feelings, and that was only in the last couple years. Far more recent than the feelings began.

"Okay, I see your point," I finally cede.

"What has today been like? After last night's almost kiss."

I tug my lip between my teeth in thought. "Unbearable, honestly. He's been awkward, and I've been awkward, but I guess it's gotten better. He took me all the way to Tsukiji Market—we're going to make dinner together—and that took forever. He spends half his time catching up with the vendors." I frown. "I suppose it pays off, though—you should've seen the deal he got on fatty tuna. And we ate sushi for lunch while we were there, and then, when we got back, he made me play soccer in the mud."

Hikari snickers. "You realize how much that sounds like a date, right?"

I roll my eyes. "Taking me to the fish market isn't a date."

"Maybe not for a normal person, but this is Daisuke-kun. You know how much he loves cooking for people—he throws a fit any time Takeru and I visit him at the shop and always makes our food special. But he's never shown anyone how to cook anything. Miyako's asked him for help, but he's never given her anything more than a tip here and there, you know?"

My eyes flutter shut, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. "He just wants to make sure I don't burn down the apartment while trying to feed myself. Please stop making this sound like it's more than it is."

Finally, Hikari relents with a sigh. "Fine, fine. I'm just saying, the two of you making dinner together sounds awfully romantic."

I purse my lips. "I'm sure it's not. I just wanted to make sure I had as much time with him as possible."

I take another sip of the oolong. It's cooled down enough it doesn't burn this time.

Okay, perhaps—_perhaps_—teaching me to cook something is a little romantic. But is it worth it to think like that? The last thing I want is to get my hopes up and then torn asunder, which isn't difficult to imagine.

Of the few relationships he's had, none ever lasted longer than two weeks. He always found some random, not-very-believable reason to break it off.

She snores—hypocrite.

He's too clingy—hypocrite.

She's too messy—again, hypocrite.

He barely passed high school math—need I say it again?

"Ken," Hikari says with a sigh, "you know I want you to be happy, right?" She doesn't pause for me to answer. "Well, right now, that requires you to take the initiative. You don't have time to waste on being pessimistic."

In the distance, the water shuts off.

I listen carefully, but there's no plop or splash. He's not getting in the bath. He's toweling off.

Shit.

"He's coming out of the shower," I say quickly. "I have to go."

"Wait, wait," she says before I can hang up. "Last thing, I promise."

"Hurry."

"Just remember this: You are his most important friend, probably the most important person in his life. I'm certain he has feelings for you, but you have to know he's just as scared as you are to ruin that friendship by admitting it."

The bathroom door opens, and Daisuke spends a few seconds checking his hair in the vanity mirror before heading toward his bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

I bite my lip.

He's such a tease, and he has no idea.

"He needs to see he doesn't have anything to worry about," she continues, "and I know you need to see that too. You've got to keep going, okay?"

I take a deep breath and nod. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Experimenting in the kitchen!


	10. Chapter 10

  
_DAISUKE_

_Saturday, 6 p.m._

By the time the rice is done soaking, Ken is draining his second glass of Cocoromi Norton, an acidic red wine from the Coco Winery north of Tokyo. His cheeks are flushed, and he smiles at me in a way that says he's not all there.

Great. Just great.

How am I supposed to show him how to cook like this?

Thank god I chose something simple and easy, but there's no way in hell I'm letting him hold a knife now.

"Motomiya," he says, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice, "when can I get my hands dirty?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to concentrate. "Come here, then." I nod him closer but make sure to avoid his eyes. "Help with the rice."

He leaves his glass on the counter by the sink and joins me near the stove, leaning his weight against my shoulder. "How can I help?"

I shrug him off. "Drain the rice."

Ken frowns at the bowl of uncooked rice, soaking in cool water. "Colander or…?"

I try not to laugh as I grab the sushi vinegar, salt, sugar, and kombu. "Ken, it is a strainer." I slide them onto the counter by the rice cooker, then guide him over to the sink with the large bowl. "Like this… "

He presses close to my side as I rotate the bowl over the sink, then tilt it so the water starts to pour through the small holes on one side. A hand, cool to the touch, lands atop my bicep, and he makes a quiet, thoughtful sound as he watches.

"See?" I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "This kind of bowl was made specifically for rinsing rice." I shift to hand it to him as I add, "The closer you get to the end, you have to stick your hand in there to make sure the rice stays in the bowl."

But instead of taking the bowl from me, Ken slips his hand into the cool water and cups the rice so it stays out of the way. His head rests on my shoulder, his movements slow but determined.

When the water has been sufficiently drained, I push the bowl into his hands and tell him to add it to the rice cooker.

"How are you already this drunk from two glasses of wine?" I demand as he uses a spatula to nudge the last grains of rice into the cooker.

Ken just laughs.

With a scowl, I call out the measurements for the rest of the ingredients, and he manages to add everything to the rice cooker without making a mess, which I suppose I should be grateful for. Then, we put the lid on, turn the cooker to sushi mode, and slide it to the back of the counter to make space.

Sighing, Ken relaxes into me again, melting to my side, his head nestled in the crook of my neck, and my body stiffens.

"Ichijouji, how am I supposed to show you anything if all you want to do is take a nap?" I grumble.

His laughter breezes over the skin of my neck—I inhale sharply. "I don't want to nap," he insists, nudging his way between my body and my arm. "I want to snuggle."

I pat his back awkwardly. "You're not usually this…affectionate. Even when you're drunk."

He laughs again, but it's silent this time, and when he's done, he twists to face the counter while still keeping his body in constant contact with mine. "What's next? We're making sushi, aren't we?"

I squeeze his waist with a sigh. "Temaki sushi," I clarify.

Ken pulls back to glare at me, his bottom lip jutting out. "What? We're doing hand rolls? You don't think I can handle making regular maki?"

Amusement tugs at my mouth. "Right now? Definitely not."

He leans closer to flick me on the nose, and I scowl at him.

"Hey, you're the one who decided to get drunk."

"I'm not drunk," he says, pulling away from me finally. "I am blissfully tipsy."

I snort. "Okay, drunk-ass, want to get out everything we bought this morning?"

After a quick scoff, he rummages through the fridge to pull out everything we bought at the marketplace while I pull out the cutting board and find a few knives.

The convenience of making temaki instead of regular maki sushi is that we don't have to be as specific about cutting the ingredients. But still, they need to be in long strips that can easily be rolled up into the nori funnel.

"Okay, you don't get to help with this part," I say the moment he lays the different fish on the counter beside me.

Ken pouts.

That's a rare sight to see.

But no matter how damn cute he is with that pout and those flushed cheeks, I'm not letting him anywhere near my chef knives. Or any knives.

I tap him under the chin to catch his gaze. "There's no way in hell I'm letting you cut yourself, Ichijouji. Deal with it."

He huffs, looking away. "Fine." And he pushes away from the counter.

"You're still supposed to pay attention," I call after him.

But he's at the opposite counter, pouring out another glass of wine. "Aren't you going to drink yours?"

My glass sits beside his, mostly full. I haven't had more than a couple sips.

I shake my head. "Alcohol and knives don't mix, Ken."

I turn my attention to the fish and begin slicing them into long sticks, which will be simple to add to our temaki. The finished pieces, ready to eat, slide onto a platter I pulled out. Organizing this should be easy; everything should be ready by the time the rice is done cooking.

Cold hands settle on my hips, then Ken tucks his chin over one shoulder. "Aren't you going to explain what you're doing?" he murmurs, eyes studying the cutting board, where my knife hand has frozen mid-slice.

I swallow. "Uh, cutting."

He smiles softly. "You've always had a way with words, Motomiya."

His little jibe eases the tension in my body, and I return to slicing through the salmon. "It's simple really," I say, trying to relax my shoulders despite his attentions. "I'm cutting them into slices so they fit on the temaki."

"Fascinating," he murmurs.

I finish slicing the salmon, then move on to the red snapper.

His thumb slips under the hem of my shirt—my breath hitches—and rubs circles on the sensitive skin near my hip. Then, his nose traces up the side of my neck.

I nearly slice off the tip of my index finger.

"Ken," I say, voice quiet but firm, "what are you doing?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you trying to make me lose a finger?"

He leans back with a frown, his brow furrowed in thought. "Why would I want that? I rather like your fingers, Daisuke. There are so many fun things they could be put to good use doing…"

I turn to him sharply, and his intense blue-violet eyes lock with mine.

He's too close.

I wet my lips and try to divert my attention back to the cutting board, but I can't take my eyes off him. Especially since his thumb hasn't stopped rubbing circles right at the hem of my shorts, sending pleasant chills through my body.

"Like what?" I ask, voice quiet. "What 'fun things' should I be doing with my fingers?"

Ken smiles, and the flush on his cheeks increases. "You don't know how to use your imagination, Daisuke?"

Oh, trust me, I use my imagination all the time.

I drop the knife on the cutting board and twist to thread my clean hand through his loose hair. "I want to know what _you_ imagine."

"What I imagine?" He says the words like he hasn't considered the concept before, like he's testing the words on his tongue. "Daisuke…" He blinks slowly, his eyes struggling to focus on me. "I always—"

_Pop_.

The rice is ready.

We're in the middle of making dinner.

And Ken's been drinking.

I pull away with a guarded smile and check on the food. The paddle moves through the fluffy rice with ease, and the glossy sheen on the grains looks perfect.

This is hardly the time to get carried away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Temaki sushi is a hand roll while maki sushi is the most common kind, a roll with the nori (seaweed) on the outside.
> 
> Next Time: Poker, sake, and interrogations...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're ready for this.

_DAISUKE_

_Saturday, 11 p.m._

Ken giggles—actually giggles—as he sways his head and flicks his feet to the pop melodies streaming from his laptop. He's lying with his back flat on the couch, legs up in the air and crossed, and his head dangling over the edge to look at the living room upside down.

And for some completely unknown reason, he's still wearing that damn kimono. That kimono that barely covers anything, especially in this position.

Because if history has proven anything, it's that Ken likes to torture me.

He insisted on the music after dinner—this "tipsy" baka made an enormous mess of his temaki and then spent the whole time apologizing while I laughed at his failed attempts to clean up. Since then, he's been having the time of his life "dancing" and singing along in his awkward position.

We finished off the bottle of wine with dinner. Meaning I drank my one glass and Ken kept the rest to himself.

But for the last hour, we've been drinking sake. Ken wanted to warm it up, but he gave up pretty quickly when he burned his finger on the first try. We've just been drinking it from our wine glasses because neither of us wants more dishes to wash in the morning.

"I like this song," Ken says, giggling more.

Yeah, definitely safe to say he's drunk now.

Probably too drunk to get up and pour himself another glass of sake. That's a good thing.

I glance toward the laptop, but the screen's faded to black and it's too far away to read anyway. "Okay, Ichijouji, you sober enough for this?" I turn back to my worn deck of cards and shuffle again.

He shoots me a scowl. Upside down, it's not very effective.

"We're playing five-card draw," I say, shuffling one last time. "You remember how to play, right?" I deal out five cards each, then drop the deck in a stack on the floor between us.

He holds out his hand and accepts his five starting cards. "Hmm, what are we betting?" he asks as his eyes flit over his hand. "Money? Chores? I'm not sure I have anything to give but IOUs."

"I don't want you to owe me." I snicker. "I'm collecting."

Ken freezes, suddenly looking far more sober than he has any time in the last four hours, and his upside-down eyes meet mine under—over?—the cards. "What?"

"This afternoon. The soccer match." A grin spreads across my face. "Time to collect, Ichijouji."

He licks his lips slowly, then hides his face behind the fanned-out cards again.

"So here's how it works," I say, directing my attention to the five cards in my hand and organizing them. "If I win a hand, you have to answer any single question I have truthfully. And if you win, I'll tell you something true I've never told you before."

Ken's movements are stiff as he peeks again. "Why don't _I_ get to ask _you_ questions?"

"Because"—I flash him a smirk—"I won the match. I make the rules."

Since I'm decidedly more sober of the two of us, it only takes me a moment to discard two cards and draw replacements. Ken takes a little longer, perhaps because he's scowling at me.

When he drops his cards on the floor below his dangling hair a moment later, he has a pair of tens.

"What's your favorite memory of me?" I ask as I lay down my hand, revealing my three of a kind.

He cocks an eyebrow, then shrugs. "I'm supposed to come up with one on the spot?" Then, his ridiculous drunk smile returns. "You've spent the entire time I've known you embarrassing yourself, Motomiya. How could I possibly choose _one_?"

I shoot him a glare. "You have to answer honestly."

"I didn't say anything dishonest. We've had a lot of good memories." He sighs. "Still, that first sleepover is probably one of my favorites."

I cock my head, but he has a distant look in his eyes. Can't tell if that's him thinking or the sake. Or both.

"I'd never had a friend before, not a genuine one—aside from Wormmon, of course—but you came along and forced your way into my life." His eyes flutter shut, but he's smiling. "Now that I think about it, you tricked me into staying the night, didn't you?"

"What? No!"

Ken laughs, and his eyes open to bore into mine. "You invited me over for dinner and a meeting about BlackWarGreymon, and the next thing I knew it was so late I was calling my mom to ask permission to stay the night and borrowing your pajamas." Even in the low light—we turned off everything but the string lights he hung yesterday—his eyes are vibrant and utterly beautiful.

I offer him a sheepish smile before gathering the cards and adding them to the discard pile. "I didn't hear you complaining."

He rolls his eyes. "It took me nearly a year to get comfortable enough to complain to you about anything. Let alone your snoring."

I scrunch up my nose at him as I deal the next hand. "Okay, you can shut up now."

Ken takes his cards with an eye roll, and we both fall silent to sort our hands and discard anything undesired.

"Did you know," he says when he displays his final cards, "the probability of getting each option higher than three of a kind is less than one percent?"

I glare down at his flush—a five, a six, a nine, a jack, and an ace, all hearts—and drop my cards on the discard pile without even showing them. "Pushing you down a hill," I say, glowering at him.

He twists around, his body moving far more slowly than normal, the short kimono shifting to somehow reveal more of his supple legs, so that his head is right-side up and his body is lying sideways, stretching across the couch. "What?"

How the hell is this position more sexual than the last one?

I avert my eyes and shove his flush onto the discard pile as well, fighting down my own flush and the arousal that accompanies it. "That's my favorite memory of you. Pushing you down that damn hill."

Ken snorts. "Your favorite memory of me is from when I was the Kaiser?" He raises one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "Is that a fact?"

"Right now it is."

"You didn't even know who I was then." He takes his next hand of cards with a smirk. "Don't be a sore loser, Motomiya."

I glare at the cards in my hand, rotating them around, pulling out a couple to exchange. "Okay, fine. Sixteenth birthday. You took me to Ajinomoto Stadium. Akamine signed my jersey."

Ken sticks out his tongue, but he's smiling fondly, though wider than normal. "Was that so difficult?"

"Yes."

When I lay down my cards, I've got two pair, and he spreads his out next to mine. Only a pair of sevens. Good.

I consider my options while moving them to the discard pile. "What went through your head the first time we Jogress evolved?" I send him a hesitant frown. "I've always been curious."

Ken runs his teeth over his bottom lip, brow furrowed, looking far too sober for how giggly he was not too long ago. "I was scared." His fingers brush mine when I hand off his next set of cards, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Even after everything that had happened in the previous month, I'd never felt quite that vulnerable. Not for a long while at least." He clutches the cards to his chest and closes his eyes. "I thought I was alone. Sure, you'd asked me to join the team, but it never crossed my mind that you meant it. I thought you were just being nice because we both knew it was a terrible idea."

"Not so terrible," I murmur.

He casts a smile in my direction. "No, not so terrible." But his smile fades. "I thought Wormmon was the only one I had, you know, on my side. Part of me didn't want that to change. I wasn't ready, and I didn't think I deserved your friendship, your kindness, your forgiveness. Didn't think I deserved you." He laughs, but there's no amusement on his face. "Wormmon thought Jogress was amazing, though. I actually told him I didn't want him to do it again. That didn't last long."

I frown.

Okay, I always knew Ken was hesitant about joining the team then, but I didn't realize that extended to me, to being friends with me. I suppose I just never noticed because I was too busy bullying him into being my friend in the first place.

"Daisuke…"

I look up, meeting his eyes.

"I'm glad I was wrong."

My mouth splits into a smile, and I turn my attention to the cards again, a blush on my cheeks.

After a few more rounds, I take a break to refill my drink, and Ken leans down over the edge of the couch and nudges his wine glass toward me. "I want more too," he moans and sends me his most charming smile, practically preening.

I leave the wine glass on the floor.

"That's not fair, Motomiya," he calls after me. "You get to have more sake. Why can't I?"

In the kitchen, I pour a large cupful of sake into my glass and close the decanter again. "Because you drank most of that wine and you've had more than enough alcohol tonight." I take a sip of the sake, then turn to grab a bottle of mineral water from the fridge.

He needs to be able to hold a conversation tonight, not giggle for twenty minutes like earlier. I think he's starting to sober up, which makes all of this so much easier.

Either that, or focusing on answering questions takes all his focus right now.

Ken is lying on his stomach, pouty face almost blocked by his pillow, when I return. The indigo kimono barely covers his ass like this.

Yep, he definitely wants to torture me.

I toss the plastic bottle at the corner of the couch by his head, and he fumbles to reach it. "You need water, Ichijouji."

He scowls but pushes up into a seated position and tears open the bottle to take a long drink. All the shifting around has caused the front of the kimono to loosen, showing off more of his pale chest.

I take a big gulp of my sake and take my seat on the floor again. "Okay, next round." Pray my voice isn't as high as it sounds to me.

When I win the next hand—three of a kind to his plain old high card—I gather up the discard pile and shuffle, as there are less than ten cards left to draw, while considering my next question. After a minute, I ask, "What did you first think of me? When we met."

He spends a minute fixing his kimono, brow furrowed. "When I was the Kaiser? That's hardly…"

"I'm just curious," I say quickly, shuffling the deck, then arching it up to form a bridge. "There's no right or wrong answer, Ken."

Not that my words set him at ease.

He shifts uncomfortably as he tries to start a couple times. "I wasn't in my right mind," he finally says. "I wasn't in a place to form a proper opinion, but as frustrating as you guys were, I was glad you were there. I thought it was a game"—his voice turns bitter—"and what fun is a video game without an opponent?"

When he falls silent, I shuffle the cards a few more times before dealing out a new hand, not sure what to say.

"That's not what you meant, though, is it?" he asks in a quiet voice, burying his face in his new cards.

I shrug. "Technically, it's open to interpretation."

"But you wanted to know what I thought of _you_."

Another shrug.

He bites his lip as he shifts his cards around, then discards a couple. "I was most excited about you," he murmurs, barely loud enough to hear over the music. "You were the only one who was really a threat. I was obsessed with you." He coughs, and when he recovers, face tinged pink, he adds, "Obsessed with _beating_ you."

I can't help it, I pause in the middle of drawing my replacement cards to smirk at him. "Oh, is that the reason you wanted to tie me up so badly?" I pull the cards up into my hand, satisfied by his tomato-red face. "Really, Ken, there's nothing shameful about being into whips and chains. You should really use a safe word with BDSM, though."

"I hate you." He buries his face behind his cards. "That's not fair. We were eleven."

All I do is grin at him.

Despite his irritation, he smiles back. The giddy, drunk smile again.

Thank god. The mood was getting far too serious, and the last thing I need right now is a drunk, depressed Ken. It's not a pretty sight.

I've got a good hand when I look at my cards again: a straight, three to seven. And I know exactly what I want to ask as I spread out my hand for him to see.

"When was the last time you got laid?" I ask, voice loud and steady, as he lays down nothing more than a pair of aces.

Ken practically falls off the couch, his alcohol-flushed face turning scarlet. "What?"

I shrug, trying to stay nonchalant. "It's just, you've never really dated, just here and there. You haven't had a boyfriend in years, though, and I dunno…I'm curious."

The blush fades slightly but not much. "I don't keep track, but it's, uh, definitely been a while. A year and a half or so?"

I nod slowly and deal again.

I'm sure I'll lose the next round—I only have a pair of fives—but Ken surprises me when he lays down a pair of twos.

And I bite my lip.

These questions are getting more and more serious, and as much as I want to know, I'm scared shitless to hear his answers. Doesn't help that the sake's made his tongue loose.

But if there's anything Senpai taught me, it's that having courage doesn't mean you're never afraid. It means moving forward and doing what you need to do in spite of your fears. It means accepting your fears, learning from them, and overcoming them.

I slide the cards to the discard pile and spend a long moment straightening them. I can't look at him when I ask, "Have you ever been in love?"

For a long moment, he doesn't speak.

Instead, he shifts.

Then, suddenly, he slides off the couch, squeezing between it and me, his bare thigh pressing against my knee. "Yes." He hesitates. "Have you?"

I raise an eyebrow—I haven't lost—but it's a fair question. I gather up the cards, shifting away from him as I deal them out, and say, "Absolutely."

When I look at my hand, I've already got a pair of fours, but I discard them. I kind of don't want to win this round. There's something I need to get off my chest, something he should know if he hasn't figured it out already.

Their replacement?

Somehow, I drew a pair of queens instead.

Ken lays out his hand. He has a pair of nines.

For a moment, I glare at my cards.

I only have one question left. One I've been building up to for the last hour or so. But I need to say this first.

Fuck it.

I drop my cards on the discard pile without even showing them. He doesn't need to know I actually beat him.

I twist to face him, and he eyes me curiously. "You know, in middle school, when I still liked Hikari?"

He nods, blue-violet eyes assessing me curiously.

I chew my lip. "But I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Like her anymore. I stopped having feelings for her by the end of fifth grade."

Ken cocks his head. "Then why did you pretend you still liked her for two more years?"

"I needed time."

He raises an eyebrow.

I sigh. "To sort things out. I, uh, figured out I had feelings for someone else, that I'd liked them for a while—hell, that I'd been super obviously flirting with them without evening realizing. It was a big discovery for me, and it took me a while to adjust. It was easier to pretend I still liked Hikari because I'd acted like that for so long it came naturally and, well, I wasn't ready to draw attention to my real feelings."

I chance a look at Ken, but he's spinning the bottle of mineral water in his hand, a thoughtful look on his flushed face.

Damn, this is probably hard to digest while still drunk.

After a moment, he turns to me with a giggle. "I wish you'd told me then."

I raise an eyebrow.

Would it have changed anything?

He knocks his knee against mine and leans back on his hands, decidedly closer than before, and his smile is a little wider. "You know you can talk to me. You should really tell me next time you have a crush on someone. I'd be happy to help you sort things out."

I almost laugh. "If it comes to that," I say with a shrug. "If I ever have a crush again."

Ken raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask.

I deal the cards again.

One last question. So if I win this round…this is it.

When I show my cards a minute later, it's a full house: three sevens and a pair of kings. Ken scowls when he lays down a queen-high straight. It's a good hand, but not good enough.

I add the cards to the discard pile, then grab it and the draw pile and shuffle them together, even though we don't need more cards yet.

Ken raises an eyebrow at the move, but he leans closer. His eyes, dilated in the low light, study me.

Moment of truth.

I set the deck on the floor and shift toward him. "Ken," I say in a quiet voice, then clear my throat. "Ken, how do you feel about me now?"

He grins that dopey drunken grin, and I can see the laughter in his eyes. "You have to ask?"

I scowl at him.

Of course I have to ask. I won't know if I don't ask since he's determined to torture me instead of saying anything. And I need to know. I need confirmation. I need to hear the words.

But he presses his mouth to mine.

Words are no longer necessary.

The kiss is slow, hesitant at first, but I wrap my fingers around the nape of his neck and draw him closer.

With no more than a moment's pause, he crawls onto my lap, legs spread on either side, and wraps his arms around my shoulders. One hand buries in my hair, and he opens his mouth to me, seeking out my tongue with his own.

Twelve years.

I've waited twelve years to kiss him, to taste him, to hold him like this, and dear god, it was worth the wait. But Ken will always be worth the wait.

He sucks on my tongue, and I groan into his mouth, my hand on his side gripping the kimono. And then, he pushes me down, flat on my back, and rolls his hips, driving down on the arousal I've had to hide all night. I whimper and pull him ever closer. He's hard too, his cock pressed against my abdomen, and I revel in his warm embrace, his skin hot from the alcohol.

Slender fingers trail down my sides, then push up my shirt, desperate to touch bare skin. He moans as he traces over my quivering muscles, then breaks away, panting. His fingers circle my nipple, drawing it to a peak.

But I'm not ready to stop kissing him.

I press my mouth to his neck, and he gasps, jerking his hips, when I bite down on his pulse point.

"Daisuke…" My name on his lips comes out as a breathless moan.

My tongue darts out to trace over the love bite, and then I tug the tender skin into my mouth and suck while he writhes on top of me.

God, it's a miracle his stupid kimono hasn't fallen right open from all the friction. I still haven't figured out whether he's wearing any underwear under this stupid thing, but a large part of me sincerely hopes not.

He pulls back and yanks at my shirt again, and I push up enough he can tear it over my head. Then, I drag him down into another kiss.

Kissing him will never get old.

Under the smooth flavor of the sake and the hints of dinner, he tastes exactly how I imagined he would, and the reason is simple: he tastes like Ken. _My_ Ken.

But when his fingers grip the waistline of my shorts, I pause.

He tastes like Ken, but he tastes like the sake too. And I've been drinking too, though he's had far more than me tonight.

I lean away the moment he starts to fiddle with the button. "Ken, wait a sec."

He pauses above me, panting, my zipper halfway down already. "Huh?"

I cup his cheek and press a light kiss to his lips. "We've been drinking—you're still drunk, aren't you? I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

I don't want to _be_ something you'll regret.

He sits up, brow furrowed, putting his weight on my aching arousal. "Why would I regret…?" He takes a shaky breath. "I've been trying to show you all weekend. This is what I want. Daisuke, _you're_ what I want."

I smile, but my point still stands. "This is a bad idea," I say quietly. I push up into a sitting position and nudge some hair out of his eyes. "We should get you to bed."

He frowns but allows me to lift him off my lap and lead him to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yeah, that was a really fun chapter to write. And it wound up being way longer than I anticipated.
> 
> Next time: hangovers, video games, and flirting ;)


	12. Chapter 12

_DAISUKE_

_Sunday, 10 a.m._

"_KO!_" the television shouts, and I cast a glance toward the hallway.

After a long night of making sure Ken didn't suffocate in his own vomit, I'm still waiting for the baka to get out of bed. I don't know the last time he slept in this long, but I'd wager it involved a terrible hangover too, considering one, he can't handle his alcohol for shit and two, I can't imagine any other scenario in which he sleeps past ten.

I grab the TV remote to turn up the volume a little for the next cut scene. Maybe, if I'm lucky, the noise will rouse him.

Because dear god, we have so much to talk about today. Not that I expect to be able to talk any time soon, of course. If he's still in bed this late, he's not going to be capable of a proper discussion for a while.

The cut scene ends, and I maneuver Leifang down a long hallway toward—

A door opens.

I pause the game and look over the back of the pushed-forward couch, but even from here, the only doorway I can see is the bathroom.

Ken shuffles into view, wearing the warm-gray, oversize sweater and burgundy pajama shorts I helped him into last night—which may or may not have been some extreme form of torture—then turns into the bathroom.

I grab a bottle of mineral water from the fridge while he's in there, then set it on the table in front of the couch and return to my game.

No idea how long he'll be in there. Could be a while since he's so slow-moving right now. Hopefully, he isn't throwing up again.

A couple minutes later, as I start my next fight, he finally emerges.

I don't pause the game this time—too busy guarding against a particularly hard blow—but I can feel his eyes on me. "You didn't ralph again, did you?" I call out to him. "Because I'm pretty sure you got all the sake and wine out of your stomach around four."

For a moment, silence.

Then, he sighs. "You know, when you have alcohol poisoning, your body continues to expel the contents of your stomach even after it's empty."

I laugh.

His voice is dead tired, but he still manages to sound like a goddamn genius.

"I grabbed you a water," I say, nodding toward the table.

Slowly, he moves closer, and hunched over, wincing at the light, Ken collapses on the couch, curling up into a heap beside me. "Thanks," he murmurs, but instead of reaching for it, he stares at the unopened bottle, his blue-violet eyes blank.

I roll my eyes. "You're helpless." But I take one hand off the controller and reach forward to grab the water for him. "It's a good thing you're cute." I tear open the lid before handing it off to him.

Ken grumbles but accepts the plastic bottle and takes a sip, then another. "You're dying," he says, nodding to the screen and twisting the cap back on.

"Dammit."

He's right.

Leifang has lost three-quarters of her hit points, and I've barely managed to damage the other guy because…well, because I was too busy watching Ken.

Even hung over, Ken is something to behold. Sweat glistens on his brow, his black hair is matted and stringy, and he's far paler than normal—which is saying something—but he still manages to be utterly beautiful.

"You lost."

I shoot him a scowl, then turn that scowl to the screen.

Yup, definitely lost.

I heave a sigh. "So is that a yes?"

"Hmm?" His eyes flutter shut, and his head tilts in my direction. "What d'you mean?"

With a sigh, I drop the controller on the table and turn my full attention to him. "Did you throw up again when you went to the bathroom a few minutes ago?"

"No." His eyes blink slowly, struggling to focus on me. "Why aren't _you_ hung over?"

I quirk a smug grin. "Because I don't need to drink to gather my courage."

Ken scoffs, then settles farther back into the couch, closing his eyes. "That's hardly an impressive feat, Mr. Bearer of Courage."

Amusement tugs at my lips, and I lean closer, prodding him in the side—he practically growls at the pressure. "Perhaps not, but I'd argue you getting drunk and seducing me last night wasn't particularly _kind_, Ichijouji."

He blanches, eyes opening wide, and even with his sickly pallor, his cheeks flush pink. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Motomiya."

I cock an eyebrow.

"You must've been drunker than you thought," he insists, and he clamps his eyes shut again.

"Oh, is that how we're playing it?" I scoot closer till my leg presses flush against his, and his breath trembles. "Fine, fine. If you want to pretend you didn't try to tear my clothes off in this very room last night, go right ahead." Then, I lean in and whisper in his ear, "But if you think for one second that _I_ will forget last night, you're out of your mind."

His only response is to push me away. "Stop talking. You're making my head hurt."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're off the hook for now, Ichijouji, but you're not getting out of this conversation. We'll talk later. Today. And that's not negotiable."

His brow crinkles and his whole body winces, but I can't tell if it's from what I said or his enormous headache. "Shhh."

I fall silent, stretching out to grab the controller again. But I don't start up the game yet. Instead, I slip my arm around Ken's shoulders and tug him closer. "You'll be a lot comfier if you lie down," I murmur.

At my soft words, his body relaxes, and he allows me to pull him sideways until his head is in my lap. I expect defiance, irritation, even just a little grumbling, but he tucks his legs in and buries his head into my pajamaed thigh. A pleased sigh escapes his mouth—and I try to not let that go to my head…either one.

I swallow hard.

Then start my game again.

He really should be proud of how patient I'm being for him this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a bit of a short one.
> 
> For reference, the game Daisuke is playing is _Dead or Alive 2_ on PS2.
> 
> But more importantly, today is the first day I'm on a family vacation. We're heading out on a cruise this afternoon, and I will have limited internet access, so I probably won't be able to post any chapters till we're back on the 28th. That's if I even have time to work on this during the cruise. I'll update as soon as I can after that.
> 
> If you haven't read any of my Daiken one-shots, I've got four posted right now, and you can also take a look at my profile to see what all I'm working on right now. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! I have returned to the land of the interwebs and cell service!
> 
> So you know how I wasn't sure I'd have much time to write while on my vacation? Welp, I was wrong. I actually finished writing this fic while away, but because I didn't have internet, I have to research a few things and edit the other chapters.
> 
> But rest assured, the rest of the chapters will probably finish posting within the next ten days.

_DAISUKE_

_Sunday, 12 p.m._

Ken jerks awake and nearly falls off the couch just when I start a new game with Armstrong, and his movement knocks the controller out of my hand.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

One leg off the edge, a hand clutching my thigh like his life depends on it, his hair flattened on one side, Ken breathes hard, trying to get his bearings. Then, slowly, he retracts and pushes up into a sitting position beside me.

I raise an eyebrow. "Hey, you didn't have to move. I rather like your hand there."

He shoots me a scowl, even as a blush rises to his cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, Motomiya," he snaps.

I can't help the frown that forms on my face.

Okay, yes, I was teasing, but it's hardly "ridiculous" to want him to touch me, to want his hands on me. And judging by last night, he shouldn't find it ridiculous either. He was the one trying to take my pants off. And I definitely wouldn't have stopped him if he'd been sober.

I clear my throat. "You able to keep anything down now?" I ask. "Do you want to try eating something?"

He pauses, hand on his stomach, considering, but uncertain eyes turn to study me.

It takes a moment to register.

I snort. "That wasn't meant to be an innuendo, but you know, if you're offering…" Without waiting for his scowl or glare in response, I grab the controller from the floor and switch the PS2 off, then rise from the couch. "Come on. I'll make you some food."

He hesitates before trailing after me.

In the kitchen, I peruse the options in the fridge before glancing at his perch atop one of the stools. "How's your hangover? Still nauseous?"

"Barely," he murmurs.

"Alright, then." I turn back to the fridge and then the pantry and start pulling out ingredients. "This should help you feel better."

It won't take long to throw together some ramen, and he needs the food to help settle his stomach.

"You know," I call over my shoulder as I set a pot of water on the stove to boil, "this is the first time in a long while you've gotten that drunk. And honestly, Ichijouji, you don't need alcohol to talk to me about your feelings. In fact, it's a lot easier to have a conversation sober." I pause in the middle of peeling a couple cloves of garlic, and a glance back while grabbing a knife tells me he's already flustered. "Although, obviously, you weren't that interested in _talking_."

His cheeks turn a bright red. "Can't you think of something else to blabber about?" he snaps.

I raise an eyebrow, then turn back to the cutting board. "That sore of a subject, huh?"

"What are we doing today?" he asks instead.

Laughter bubbles in my throat. "Asks the person who slept half the day away. It's after noon already." When the garlic is done, I move on to mincing the ginger.

"That's still plenty of time to do something."

The water is boiling now, and I pull a few brown eggs from the fridge and slide them into the water. While they cook, I get back to prepping the vegetables. The leeks need julienned and the scallions need chopped, and then I can start on the broth.

Ken simply watches as I work, quiet and still rather sickly-looking. He offers no suggestions for what to do with the rest of our weekend, but his eyes follow my every movement around the kitchen—boiling water in a large pot, moving the eggs into an ice water bath, sauteing the garlic and ginger, then slowly adding the other ingredients for the broth.

I pause in the middle of chopping the nori. "Well, what did you have in mind?" I ask, looking back at him.

He blinks a few times before directing his attention to my face. "What?"

"Plenty of time to do what? Do you have something in mind?" I return to the nori, then push it aside. I still have to strain the broth and cook the noodles, but that won't take long.

He remains silent while I pull out the cheese cloth, his brow tight in concentration. "I'm not sure I can think well enough yet," he says in that quiet voice, then falls silent, and I allow him the silence while I focus on finishing the ramen.

A few minutes later, I slide a bowl of al dente noodles in a spicy shoyu broth toward him, complete with nori, scallions, leeks, bamboo shoots, a soft-boiled egg, and a few slices of braised pork belly I cooked the other day.

"_I_ can think of plenty of things we could do today," I say, handing him chopsticks, quirking my eyebrows. "If you're up for it."

Ken wets his lips, flushed from my suggestive tone, but turns his attention to his ramen. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Hmm, that's a shame." I lean closer, elbows on the counter, hands clasped under my chin. "But don't worry. I don't mind showing you."

He ducks his head and focuses on the food in his bowl.

Goddamn. How does he manage to be this cute while being so damn frustrating?

"First," I add, eyeing his normally shimmering locks, "we need to get you in the shower. You'll feel a lot better once you're clean." I assess him slowly—and his eyes dart up to meet mine before returning to the ramen. "Plus, it's a lot more fun to make you dirty when you start out clean."

His eyes narrow at his bowl, but he doesn't otherwise react.

I frown and turn back to the stove to clean up.

What the hell is his problem?

Aside from being hung over, I don't see what's wrong. He practically confessed last night—though, really, I want to hear the words, and I want to say them too—but now he wants to act like that didn't happen? He doesn't even want to talk about last night.

He wanted to sleep together, but now _he doesn't want to talk about it_.

What the fuck?

And what, am I supposed to just forget about last night?

That's not fucking possible. I've waited twelve years to kiss the damn genius, and now I have and it was perfect—aside from the alcohol part—but I'm supposed to _forget_?

He was taking my clothes off, but _I'm supposed to forget_?

He's crazy.

And I'm crazy in love with the bastard.

I push aside my own bowl of ramen to let the noodles cook a little more, then focus on washing the dishes I used. By the time I set the third pot aside to dry, Ken is at my side, offering me his bowl. I raise an eyebrow at the empty dish—he never eats that much when his stomach feels fine, but he manages to stuff himself while hung over? It must have helped, I guess.

"Thank you," he murmurs as I take it.

I slide the bowl and chopsticks into the water, then nod toward the hallway. "Let's get you in the shower then."

He shoots me a scowl. "I'm not helpless."

But I spin him around with a chuckle. "You say that _now_, but that hasn't been the case for most of the last twenty-four hours."

I nudge him down the hallway and into the bathroom, but he pauses outside the shower room.

"You're not coming in with me, are you?" he asks in a small voice, looking over his shoulder.

"That depends." My eyes lock with his, and I trail my hands down his sides, over his narrow hips, down to the hem of the gray sweater, and slowly tug it upward. "Do you want me to?"

His breath hitches, and there's a heat in his blue-violet eyes. "Daisuke…"

Without hesitation, he raises his arms so I can drag the sweater over his head, and I step closer, pressing his now bare back against my chest, my shirt the only thing between us.

He leans his head on my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, and my hands make trails of heat down his chest toward his waistline. I slow down at his taut abs, strong and firm but lean, enjoying the feel of him under my fingers.

A gasp escapes his perfect mouth when I reach the hem of his pajama shorts, and I loosen the tie in the middle, then push them slowly, slowly, slowly, over his hips. He moans when I slide them over his sexy little ass.

Fuck.

If I weren't getting hard before, I definitely am now.

Once the shorts are out of the way, he juts his hips back, pressing firmly against my growing erection—I release a sharp breath.

The pajamas pool around his ankles, but he's still wearing a pair of black silk boxers, and I play with the hem at his waist. He needs to be naked for a shower and bath, and dear god, I would give anything just to _see_ him naked, let alone touch him or help him get naked.

"Ken," I murmur into his neck, tugging at the elastic hem of his boxers. "I need—"

He rolls his hips, moaning, and I whimper at the pressure. His hands clench around the pajamas at my hips, and he rocks against me again.

"Ken…" His name is little more than a moan at his throat, and I want to sink my teeth into that tender skin. "Ken," I try again, gathering my thoughts, "if you want me to get in the shower with you, all you have to do is ask."

"Daisuke."

Breathless.

Bashful.

Beautiful.

"And if you want me to kiss you, I need to hear you say it." My fingers slip just under the hem of his boxers, and a soft whimper escapes his lips. "But we need to talk about last night, Ken. Not just…do this."

He stands a moment, breathing hard, hands clinging to my hips, my cock nestled just under his ass.

Then, he twists round to face me, dragging his arms up to hold me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine. His eyes, intense and dilated, meet mine, and I thread my fingers through his hair, my other hand at the small of his back.

"You're right," he whispers, so close I can nearly feel his lips against mine as he speaks. "We do need to talk." He releases a soft sigh, then pulls back. "But now is hardly the right time." He steps into the shower, out of reach, and turns away.

I scowl at his back—and stare as he slips off the boxers to give me a nice view of that amazing ass of his, whiter than any other part of his delicious body.

Then, he kicks the boxers up into my face and slams the shower door shut.

"_Hey!_" I tear the boxers out of the way only to scowl at the frosted glass, blocking everything but a vague hint of his form as he takes a seat on the stool and turns on the water. "Tease!"

I chuck the stupid boxers at the closed door and stalk from the room.

Time to eat my ramen, I guess. The noodles are probably overcooked now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, and here is the time where I remind you that this fic is rated explicit for a reason. I'm not going to warn you when there's an explicit scene coming up because _SPOILERS!_ But there will be a legit sex scene at some point...
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	14. Chapter 14

_DAISUKE_

_Sunday, 2 p.m._

Ken eyes the train route, skeptical, but I scoot closer and thread our fingers together as we draw closer to our destination.

By the time Ken finished his bath—and regained some color and energy—I'd eaten, washed the dishes, and come up with a plan for our afternoon. Because he may be able to survive a sedentary life, but I have to move, and I've spent way too long waiting for him to wake up and sober up today to not feel stir-crazy.

And if he's going to blow hot and cold, I'll have to force his hand.

So the moment he was dressed—and the tease took his damn time—I shoved his jacket and shoes on him and dragged him out the door. I didn't tell him where we're going. It's a surprise. Even if Ken hates surprises. He can deal with it.

Okay, I may be a little peeved about his behavior before hopping in the shower.

Just a little.

"_Next stop, Tamachi,_" the automated announcement declares over the intercom.

Ken casts a curious glance my way, but I stay silent.

As the train slows, I rise from the seat, pulling him up with me, and we exit as the doors open and push our way through the crowds toward the station exit.

"What in the world are we doing in Tamachi?" he asks over the noise, keeping close to my side. "We're not visiting my parents, are we?"

I shake my head.

"What else is here that you'd possibly want to see?"

"Hush, Ichijouji." I lead the way up the stairs, and we cross over the tracks and back down to the street level. "It's a surprise."

He hunches over beside me, a scowl on his face. "I hate surprises."

I chuckle. "I know. I've surprised you enough times to tell—besides, the whole 'I hate surprises' speech you make every time makes it pretty damn clear."

"It's hardly a speech. Don't make it sound like I'm so anal."

I squeeze his hand. "You _are_ so anal, but perhaps I am exaggerating."

It only takes maybe five minutes to reach the canal, but Ken hesitates the moment we reach it. The sun won't set for a couple hours right now, but he breaks away from me and heads for the railing, hands twisting around the metal as he studies the calm water below.

I stay behind.

"You know," he says, glancing first to the right, then to the left, "this is the way I walked home." Then, he turns his gaze back on me. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Motomiya?"

All I can do is grin. "It was pretty easy to figure out. I mean, we knew which elementary school you went to and where you lived—you were pretty famous."

He rolls his eyes. "You stalked me."

"Does it really count as stalking if you're eleven?"

"Yes."

"Besides, I had good intentions."

Ken snorts. "Sure you did."

"I did too," I say, stepping forward and taking his hand again.

The large concrete staircase isn't far away, and I lead him down to the edge of the water, tranquil and smooth, right next to the bridge. The same place we stood before so long ago.

I release him then and kneel down to find a rock to toss into the water. "I just wanted to be your friend." My hands wipe off the dirt from a rather smooth one, and I take aim and sling it across the water. It skips once before sinking. "It's not my fault you were so damn antisocial."

He laughs and collapses onto the grass beside me. "We came all the way to Tamachi so we could come _here_?"

I shrug. "Well, I couldn't exactly take you to the Digital World, could I?"

He frowns but nods.

"I'd take you back to the desert. To where your base crashed," I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear me. "I know a lot of those memories are bad, but they're important too. And it's not like the base is even there anymore."

Last we saw, where the Digimon Kaiser's base once crashed looks nothing like it did when we were kids.

Instead of sand and dust and char and those horrible memories, there's a small oasis. Where there was once so much dark energy, now a hot spring bubbles and gurgles, bringing life to the surrounding area. I like to think of it as a manifestation of Ken's Crest of Kindness, still buried there at the center, though the rest of the base was long ago destroyed by Paildramon.

"It's the place where I first got to see the real Ken," I continue when he doesn't speak. "Not the Kaiser, not the child prodigy. Just Ken."

He searches for a rock as well and sends it skating across the water. "And it's where we first Jogress evolved." Per usual, Ken has more finesse, better aim, and a significantly more gentle touch. A soft smile spreads across his face as the rock skips three, four, five times. "You know, I'm pretty sure my face still hurts from that, Motomiya."

I chuckle. "Sorry?"

He snorts.

"Okay, yeah, I'm not sorry at all." I knock my elbow against his with a grin. "Sometimes, you get too stuck in your own head and you think you can do everything on your own. You forget we're better as a team."

Ken laughs, but there's no humor to it. "That's funny, considering I always thought I relied on you too much."

"Not possible, Ichijouji." I reach for him, determination hot throughout my body. "We're _supposed_ to rely on each other. That's what partners do."

Tremors spread through him, even as he entwines our fingers. "I distinctly remember telling you not to use that word, Motomiya," he teases, but his voice wavers.

I squeeze his hand. "Yeah, well, you didn't _tell_ me; you asked. Besides, I've never been that great of a listener."

He bites his lip—and I resist the urge to kiss him right here and now. "That's not entirely true, Daisuke. You may talk a lot, but you've always listened when I need you to." He casts a glance toward our joined hands, then back toward the canal. "Why did you bring me here?"

"This is where I first asked you to join us, to be part of the team," I say with a shrug.

Ken smiles. "Even though no one else would even consider working with me."

My jaw clenches, face hardens. "No one else saw what I saw." I leave no room for argument.

His eyes widen slightly at my tone. "What did you see?"

"I saw _you_." I scoot closer, pressing our arms and shoulders together, holding his hand tight in mine. "From the moment I saw the Golden Digimental, I knew you were good. There was never any question in my mind."

His smile fades, though. "You were the only one sure of that, Daisuke. Well, you and Wormmon." He heaves a sigh. "You always believed in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself."

"You never gave me any reason not to."

He rolls his eyes. "I gave you hundreds of reasons not to, but you are the most stubborn person I've ever met. You found the one reason to believe and latched onto it until you managed to convince the rest of the Chosen—and me." This time, his smile is genuine, affectionate. "No one else could have done that. Really, Daisuke, you perform miracles."

It's rare for mere _words_ to embarrass me.

When you grow up as the person everyone laughs at, whether you're meaning to make them laugh or not, you get pretty used to things that most people would find embarrassing and uncomfortable. It's a side effect of everyone treating you like you're ridiculous, and either you run with it or you resent them for the rest of your life.

Me?

Well, I was never good at holding a grudge, and honestly, I like making people laugh.

But sometimes, Ken says the most amazing things, and my normal talent for talking—even talking nonsense—disappears entirely.

Heat rises to my cheeks. I open my mouth to respond, but no words come.

Ken simply beams at me, and after a moment, he releases a content sigh and leans his head on my shoulder. "And so modest too," he says between laughs.

"Shut up." My hand tightens around his, and I rest my head against his.

"You're incredible," he says, amusement tugging at his voice. "I could insult you twenty different ways and you wouldn't bat an eye, but the moment someone says something nice, you look like a fish out of water."

I pout, even though he can't see my face. "You know I don't do compliments well. Especially when you're the one saying them."

"I suppose I should feel special then."

"Shut up, Ichijouji. You know you're special."

His body shakes with laughter. "Am I now?"

I pull back and turn to look at him. "Absolutely." When he lifts his head and meets my eyes, I drag my fingers through his hair. "Is now a good time to talk about last night?"

But he looks away. "I don't think I'm ready to talk about last night, Daisuke," he whispers.

I sigh. "When will you be ready? Because I don't want to wait _another_ twelve years to get this thing between us sorted." And I definitely don't want to wait another twelve years to kiss him again—I'd prefer to be able to do that every day.

He frowns but doesn't turn to me. "_Another_?"

My fingers trail down to his chin and direct his attention back to me. "Okay, how about this?"

"Hmm?"

"You need time?"

He nods slowly.

I take a deep breath, but force the words out. "You have till tonight," I say, firm, then shake my head before he can protest. "Nope, sorry. You know better than anyone how impatient I am, and _I_ need to talk to you about last night, about the last twelve years, about everything, even if you don't say a word. I have no idea how long it'll take for you to be ready—you probably don't either—and I can't wait. Not after last night."

Ken's eyes flutter shut, his breathing shaky, but he nods.

"So tonight," I say, tracing a soft finger pad along his hairline, "after dinner, I'm taking you somewhere—yes, another surprise—and we're going to talk."

His "okay" is small and feeble, but I'll take what I can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, the spot by the canal is in episode 24, in which Daisuke asks all the other Chosen about inviting Ken to join them, but when none of them respond favorably, he finds Ken on his way home from school (implied from previous scene) and asks him to apologize and join the team anyway. Ken immediately agrees to apologize, but he panics the moment Daisuke calls him a Chosen Child and their partner...and then he runs away. They Jogress evolve for the first time in the next episode.
> 
> Also, I'd like to note that, in this fic, they are obviously separated from their Digimon partners and unable to go to the Digital World. I don't really have a reason for this, as it isn't relevant to the story; it's just the way it is. *shrug*
> 
> Next chapter: Dinnertime! (I find I'm constantly writing about food while writing from Dai's POV...)


	15. Chapter 15

_DAISUKE_

_Sunday, 6 p.m._

The seaweed salad goes on the table first and the gyokuro tea has been steeping for a couple minutes, but I leave the salmon, rice, and gyoza in the kitchen, kept hot until it's time.

We don't use the actual dining table often—we usually eat at the breakfast nook or in the living room, where we can sit on cushions on the floor—but this is special. I light a candle at the center of the table and lower the lights to set the mood.

Tonight is special, and I need him to know that.

I pour us each a glass of water and then check the state of the gyokuro. It's the first infusion, and this was expensive—I may have run out to his favorite tea house to grab some after we got back from Tamachi—so it's very important to get the timing exactly right. The initial cold brew doesn't give much actual liquid to drink, but it's always a visceral experience and Ken's favorite part of drinking gyokuro.

No matter what, I'm not risking anything being misconstrued by our consuming alcohol tonight. Definitely not repeating that mistake.

The tea has a couple minutes left to steep when I knock on his door.

Ken holed himself away in his room the moment we got back this afternoon. Not that I'm surprised, considering he barely looked at me the entire train ride home. It takes a lot to make him jittery, but his knuckles were white from how tightly they clenched around the handrail.

I have to knock a second time before he answers the door, but when he does, his face is pale and he remains unsmiling. "Yes?"

I scratch the back of my head and force a smile—this needs to be discreet but convincing…and _discreet_ is definitely _not_ my middle name. "I made dinner, and you look like you should eat."

He frowns. "I'm not hungry."

"Have you eaten since lunch?"

His eyes dart back into his room, searching for something, before he turns back to me. "No."

"Then you need to eat, even if you're not hungry." I narrow my eyes and say, "Don't make me force-feed you," before he can argue. "You know I'm not above shoving food down your throat if that's what it takes to make you eat."

He shoots me a scowl, but he knows I'm right.

Ken has dealt with more than his fair share of chronic depression, and I've always been the one there to make sure he didn't waste away during the months he barely ate and to remind him that punishing himself won't fix anything. He resented me as much as he appreciated me…probably more actually.

With a sigh, he steps out of his room, and I grab his hand to drag him to the dining room, saying, "I made your favorite."

But when we reach the dining room, the flush I expected at the obviously romantic atmosphere doesn't make an appearance. In fact, he looks paler than before, which is this amazing ability that Ken has—if you think you've seen him at his palest, he'll surprise you and lose even more color, possibly out of spite or just to scare you shitless.

He lets me lead him to the table and pull out his chair without protest, but his hands are shaking when he reaches for his chopsticks. So much so he can't even start on the salad.

I check the tea again, and it's been long enough. There's about a tablespoon of the pale green tea when I pour it into a cup, and I set the jade dew on the table by his water.

"How's your salad?" I ask, scooting my chair in.

But Ken examines the gyokuro curiously. "When did we get this?" he asks softly. "It's my favorite."

I raise an eyebrow. I already said that, though I suppose I didn't specify the tea. Actually, the whole meal is a compilation of some of his favorite foods.

He looks up at me. "Why?"

The other eyebrow rises to meet its partner. "_Because_ it's your favorite, baka."

He frowns but leans forward and takes a sip—causing the first smile I've seen on his face since I told him we were talking tonight. "It's lovely," he says, but the smile fades and his words sound stilted as he offers the remainder to me.

I gesture for him to finish it. "Made it for you," I murmur.

He sets the cup down again, opting to start on his seaweed salad rather than finishing the gyokuro. And that confused, uncomfortable frown is back.

What the hell is he so worried about?

God, if my feelings for him weren't obvious before last night, they have to be now. And dear god were they obvious before. I've been in love with this ridiculous genius since I was eleven years old, and I'm not exactly good at hiding my thoughts or feelings.

So unless he changed his mind or he suddenly became a liar while drunk, he has nothing to worry about.

And yet…

He fumbles with his chopsticks like he's a damn foreigner and barely manages to eat a few bites of salad before he drops the utensils, which roll off the edge—and in his clumsy attempts to grab them before they hit the floor, his elbow knocks into his glass of water, which flies off the table and shatters on the floor, water splashing and spilling all over the linoleum.

"Shit," he says under his breath as he moves to pick up the pieces.

But I hold up my hand. "I'll take care of it."

I give him a new set of chopsticks but opt to give him bottled water instead of a fresh glass, then throw the biggest pieces of glass in the trash before grabbing the vacuum to clean up the rest.

Ken only picks at his food while I clean, but his salad is still halfway gone by the time I return. Once I start to scarf down my own salad, pausing momentarily to critique the miso dressing, he finishes his salad at a more normal pace.

Even after I exchange the empty salad bowls for plates of miso-marinated salmon, flavorful ginger rice, and gyoza dumplings, crispy on the outside but juicy on the inside, we eat in silence.

I don't do well in silence.

"Are you feeling better?" I ask slowly. "Hangover all gone?"

He nods but continues eating, plucking up one of the pan-fried dumplings and dipping it in his sauce dish.

"And your afternoon? Did you have a good afternoon?"

He pauses. "I've been reading the last few hours." But then, he takes a bite of the gyoza, and a glistening drop of sauce settles on his bottom lip.

"Oh? What were you reading?"

"My textbook," he says once he swallows. "Criminal psychology."

I frown but nod, and when his tongue darts out to retrieve the droplet of sauce, I have to remind myself not to get distracted.

He didn't even look up that time. Not that he looked _at me_ when answering any of those questions.

"Ken," I say, voice quiet but determined.

He looks up immediately and finally meets my eyes. "What?"

I stretch across the table to cover his free hand with mine. "You don't have to be nervous about tonight. You have nothing to worry about. Everything's going to be fine, no matter what happens when we talk."

But Ken scowls. "That's easy for you to say. You know what you're going to say tonight; I don't have a clue."

I have to stop myself from groaning.

Seriously?

He has _plenty_ of clues to know what I'm going to say tonight. Is he in that deep of denial? Or is he so nervous he can't recognize my feelings? What the hell is wrong with him?

"Really," I try again, "I'm sure you've got an inkling of what I'm going to say."

Ken takes a few bites of salmon before turning his attention back to me. "An _inkling_? That's not helpful, Motomiya."

This time, I do groan. "Okay, fine, I'll drop it. We'll talk when we talk, and I won't try to make you feel better again."

His eyes narrow.

Okay, that was definitely not the right thing to say.

Not that I have any idea what the right thing to say is right now. He doesn't make any fucking sense.

He flattens his chopsticks on the table, hand pressing them down. "If you're just going to mock me for making an utter fool of myself last night," he says, words quiet but cold as ice, "or insist we shouldn't do anything like that ever again, you really should say so now instead of forcing me to wait and wonder and worry for _hours_. It's cruel."

Are you fucking kidding me?

I drop my head into my hands and grumble against my palms.

How is this the smartest person I know? _How?_

"Then," he snarls, his voice rising in anger, "I can start looking for a new apartment instead of _continuing_ to embarrass myself mooning after my best friend. Because I can't just make it go away—trust me, I've tried _for years_—and even if leaving would be painful, I know how much more painful it would be to keep living here with you after you reject me, and I can't do it. I just can't…"

Okay, it's official.

Ichijouji Ken is the stupidest genius I've ever met. And the biggest pessimist.

_After I reject him…_

There's nothing he could ever do to make me reject him. Honestly, even if I weren't madly in love with the baka, I'm pretty sure I'd still date him if he wanted to. Because no matter what, and above all else, he's my best friend and I'd do anything to make him happy. Even if that means giving up my own happiness for his.

_Reject him…_

What a ridiculous idea.

I try to swallow down my amusement, but my shoulders shake until I finally release it. The laughter echoes off the walls of this corner of the apartment, and I lean back in my chair, eyes clamped shut, stinging with mirth.

"Oh, that's very funny," he snaps, but there's something different in his voice now.

It takes a moment to settle my laughter, but when I do, I can see the glistening streams staining his cheeks.

"Shit." I push up from my chair and circle the table. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed." I crouch beside him to wipe them away, but he turns away. "I wasn't trying to be mean, I swear."

This time, he lets me gather the tears on my fingers, and his blue-violet eyes, pink-rimmed and glistening, find mine.

"It's just…" I sigh. "You're such a pessimist, did you know that?"

"I am aware."

I tuck a few strands of his black hair, back to its natural silky texture, behind his ear. "You should know by now I'd never do anything to hurt you. Not on purpose. I care about you far too much."

He eyes me skeptically. "But you shouldn't put my needs above your own. If being with me makes you unhappy…"

I shake my head just slightly before pushing forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips. "You baka," I say, pulling back, "that's impossible."

But he closes his eyes as more tears spring up and takes a shaky breath. "Please don't tease me, Daisuke. I can't handle it."

Despite the tears, I chuckle. "I love you." I thread my fingers through his soft hair and kiss him again, this time giving him long enough to respond, but still, I keep it short.

His eyes flash open. "What?"

"That's what I was going to say tonight." A shy smile spreads across my face, but I know I have to push forward. "I love you. I'm _in love_ with you. Have been for years."

He's crying again, but he grabs my shoulders and pulls me in for another kiss.

This kiss is different—eager, needy, desperate. He links his arms around my neck and leans down to reach me better; I have to grip the table to keep from falling, but I'll support him if I need to.

"I love you, I love you," he mumbles against my lips. "I love you." He turns his head for a better angle, and he opens his mouth to slide his tongue over the seam of my mouth.

When I open for him, he delves inside, and I moan at the taste of him, mixed with the flavor of our dinner—I'm just grateful there's no hint of sake this time. My grip on the table tightens as he pulls back just enough to scrape his teeth over my bottom lip.

And then my legs give out.

But Ken's grip doesn't fail. He's dragged down on top of me, landing between my spread knees, the chair toppling over behind him, but he's not deterred. Our lips reconnect, and his tongue slides inside, twisting and twirling with mine, determined and demanding, and fuck, he can have anything I'm able to give him.

To be fair, Ken already has the most important thing, my heart, and he's had that for years. Since the moment we Jogress evolved and I could feel his heart beat in tune with mine, it's belonged as much to him as it has to me.

I break away, gasping for air, and catch his eye. "I don't know about you, but I'd prefer not to sit here on the floor. It's really not that comfortable for my ass."

He quirks a small smile, then nods solemnly and rises from his position on top of me. "Probably less comfortable if you're naked."

I swallow at the implication but follow him to my feet. "Yeah, probably." The words are breathless.

He threads our fingers together, cups my cheek with the other hand, and presses a soft kiss to my mouth, and when we part a moment later, he pulls away and leads me down the hallway by the hand.

In his bedroom, the light still on from before we started dinner, he kisses me again, and his fingers, soft, delicate, and slender, trace down my back, catching on the T-shirt until he reaches the bottom hem and plunges under the fabric. His hands are cold on my skin, and a shiver ripples through my body even as arousal jolts downward.

I hold him by the hips, walking him backward to the bed, never breaking away from his perfect mouth, until his legs hit the edge of the mattress. His knees buckle, and I move with him as he crumples to the bed, gasping for breath.

But the moment I try to climb on top of him, he presses a hand to my chest.

"What?" I pant, one knee planted on the edge of the bed.

He nudges me away, and his cloudy, dilated eyes slide up and down my body. Then, he dips a finger under the hem of my shorts and boxers and snaps the elastic. "Take it off. All of it," he commands.

Oh, fuck, that's hot.

I yank the T-shirt over my head, but his eyes study my waistline expectantly. And when my fingers undo the button and slide down the zipper, he inhales sharply and pushes forward. There's an eager, strangled moan in the back of his throat as I slide the remainder of my clothes off and kick them aside.

I hesitate.

What happens next is up to him—he's the one who pulled me in here and demanded I strip. I think it's safe to say he's in charge right now.

But I don't have to wait for more than a moment.

Ken leans forward, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and trails a finger down my chest, through the trimmed burgundy hair, and along my shaft. He bites his lip at the physical reaction—my cock stretches out, begging for more attention, more pressure, more Ken—and I bury my hand in his hair and let my eyes fall shut.

Something hot and wet swallows my length, and I have to lock my knees to keep from crumpling at the feel of his mouth on my cock, his tongue sweeping around the head, his hands seizing my ass to keep me steady.

My fingers twist in his silky hair, and I can barely breathe—then, he sucks me deep into his mouth, his lips nearly touching the base, and all thoughts of breathing disappear entirely.

How am I supposed to breathe when he can do that?

How am I supposed to stand?

My legs tremble, but he pulls me closer, guiding me onto the mattress, knees on either side of his hips as he leans back to keep his mouth wrapped tight around me. I press a hand to the wall for support and gasp his name when he leans back and sucks hard on the head.

Fuck.

I'm going to come if he keeps this up, and he's still completely dressed. That's not fair.

I abandon his hair in favor of tugging at his shirt collar, but the bastard's wearing a button-up and I'm sure he'd murder me if I ripped it. "Ken…"

"Hmm?"

A long moan falls from my lips at the vibrations that hum through my cock, and this time, I yank at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

He laughs in realization, sending another tremor of pleasure through my body, and swallows me down before slowly releasing me. "If you need something," he murmurs, amusement twisting his tone, "you could've said, Motomiya."

For a moment, I hover there, panting and trembling, and out of boredom or amusement or perhaps because he's tired of waiting, Ken presses soft kisses along my erection.

Which really isn't fucking helping, dammit.

Finally, I push away from the wall and nudge him down onto his back. I settle on his lap, and my quivering fingers pry at the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them one by one as he rubs his hands from my ribs to my thighs, then back up.

It takes too long to get the shirt off, but he pushes up on his elbows to help slide it over his shoulders. I tug it off his arms one after the other; then it's trapped under his back, but I don't care because his chest is bare and I want to touch him and kiss him and _feel_ him.

I've waited years to feel his skin, to touch him like this, to know every inch of his beautiful body, and now that we're here, my brain barely functions.

Well, obviously, Ken doesn't like me for my brains.

_Love_.

Ken loves me.

I hover over him, covering his mouth with another kiss, as I maneuver between his legs—it's pretty difficult to take off someone's pants while you're sitting on top of them, and dear god, he shouldn't still be wearing these ridiculously sexy skinny jeans.

The button comes undone easily, and I drag the zipper down. Then, he lifts his hips so I can slide the black jeans over his perfect little ass, pulling the boxers with them. I have to help each pant leg over his foot, but when at last he's naked, his legs wrap around me, holding me in place. He looks up at me, his eyes vibrant and radiating with energy, a deep flush on his cheeks, and I'm enthralled.

God, he's beautiful.

He looks soft and innocent and perfect like an angel—until he reaches down and wraps his hand around me, squeezing and twisting and pumping my erection in a steady rhythm. "You know, I wasn't finished with you, Motomiya."

Yep.

Nothing remotely angelic about that.

My hands clench in the sheets, and I gasp his name. "I don't know what your plans are," I say, breathless, "but if you don't stop, I'm going to come."

He pauses, then continues at a slower pace. "Well, I'd prefer for you to come inside me," he murmurs, eyes locked with mine, "but I suppose I can manage to wait if I must. I've waited this long."

I lean down and press my mouth to his, taking the opportunity to find his hard length between us. My hand closes around the erection, pulsing with arousal, and he whimpers into the kiss as I massage him.

"I won't last long," I say after breaking away, hovering close enough to feel his shuddering breaths against my skin. "Just so you know."

He finally releases me and instead cups my cheek. "Oh, god, I don't need you to. You're crazy if you think _I'm_ going to last." He writhes as I continue to pump his cock, breath hitching, and then, his teeth sink into the tender skin at the base of my throat. "I just need to feel you inside me. Fuck, I've wanted you for so long."

I pull him into another short kiss. "I'm yours. I've always been yours," I say, holding my forehead to his. "Nothing's going to change that, I promise."

He quirks a smile. "And Motomiya Daisuke always keeps his promises."

"Damn straight."

I kiss him again, but Ken pushes up into a sitting position, then nudges me toward the head of the bed—and suddenly I'm on my back with him above, stretching over me to reach his desk.

When he pulls back, straddling my hips, his hard cock rubbing against mine, he drops something cold on my chest. "Condom?"

I nod, taking the wrapper in my hand. "Condom."

But my eyes are focused on the other item he grabbed: a small bottle of lube, which he upends and pours a small portion on his fingers. Then, he reaches between his legs, and I stare, despite the fact that I can't see anything but the way he reacts—his head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, brow furrowed, teeth chewing his bottom lip, breath quivering. The hand massages and stretches, and I hold back a growl when he starts to roll his hips with the motion, a low moan falling from his pink lips.

Oh, fuck. This man will be the death of me.

His eyes are clenched shut now, his breath in shallow gasps, but he manages to say, "Are you ready for me?"

Shit.

I have the condom, still sealed, in my hand. I was too distracted to do anything about it.

"Uhm, gimme a sec." I tear at the wrapper, yanking it open.

His eyes flutter open, and he blinks a few times to focus on me. "Really, Daisuke," he says in a soft voice, grabbing the partially opened condom from my hands. "I shouldn't have to do everything." But he tugs the condom from the wrapper before grasping me and rolling it on with ease.

A long, desperate groan spills from my lips, especially as he pours a little more lube into his palm and slides it over my cock.

He doesn't release me. Instead, he holds me firmly in place and sinks down, legs quivering. His pleased moan echoes through the room, his face contorting and twisting as he adjusts to my full length, and I dig my fingers into his hips, clinging to him to keep from bursting at the feel of his tight heat.

Yeah, I'm definitely not going to last long if he's going to look this damn sexy.

Slowly, he starts to rock his hips, and his lips part in concentration. His hands dig into my hips to steady himself as little gasps and whimpers slip from his mouth. "Ah, Daisuke," he whispers, voice trembling more than his body. "You're…oh, god."

Or sounds this damn sexy.

I push up on my elbows to press kisses to his abdomen, his chest, his arm, anywhere within reach, and my hands grasp his ass, hold him tight, helping steady his thrusts as he starts to move faster.

Then, he rolls his hips, shifting slightly, and leans back, grabbing the sheets for purchase, and a sharp gasp tells me exactly how good the new angle feels.

And I can't hold back and let him stay in control anymore.

My hands close around his hips and steady his movements before I thrust up into him, slowly, deliberately, pacing myself before I lose control. I want to make this as perfect and pleasurable for him as possible, but that's a little difficult if I come too soon, no matter what he says.

He arches backward, fingers twisted in the sheets, and my next thrust drives deep. Something between a sob and a scream escapes his lips, and I pause mid-thrust. "Y'okay?" I manage.

Ken nods, emphatic. "Again. Do that again."

I nod, unable to speak, and hold him tight as I thrust into him, hard and deep, eliciting a sharp cry from his perfect lips, followed by a keen whimper. And god, I need to hear that sound again. Get it imprinted on my brain forever.

"Again," he gasps.

I have no problem following that command.

He moans, "I love you," again and again between his cries, and I want to hear him say that over and over.

But after a particularly loud moan, I can't hold on anymore. I yank him down to meet my thrust and pant as I release, and he trembles above me, gasping, unable to breathe, then frantically rides me, seeking his own release.

And I need him to come too.

My hand slips between us to wrap around his leaking shaft, and his entire body shakes and spasms in response.

It doesn't take much.

A couple pumps, and his seed shoots across my abdomen.

His body slumps, and I help him slide off and onto the mattress beside me, his back pressing against the wall. Even after I dispose of the condom, he's panting, gasping for breath, and I pull him into my arms. He hums his approval, tucking his head in the crook of my neck and draping an arm over my chest.

After a few minutes, when his breathing has steadied, he presses a couple open-mouthed kisses to my neck. "I love you, Daisuke," he murmurs.

I turn to him and pull him into a kiss. "And I love you," I say, sweeping a clump of hair from his eyes—it really is getting long again.

We share a few lazy kisses, legs entangled, my hands teasing his hair, and then, he buries his face in my neck, licking and kissing and nipping at my ear, my throat, my collarbone. And as he sucks at the tender skin, arousal coils in my abdomen again.

"You know," I say, my voice a low grumble, "this doesn't get you out of going tonight."

He hums in affirmation against my throat, and I reach down to cup his pert ass—a soft moan vibrates against my skin.

"I'm sticky. I need…" I sigh, enjoying his tongue and lips and hot mouth way too much to be productive. "We should shower."

He lets me lead him from the bedroom, and he doesn't complain when I pause every few feet to pin him to the wall and cover his mouth with fierce kisses. His response is enthusiastic: his nails scratch down my back, one leg hooks around my hips, and he moans against my lips.

I slide my hand between us just to check. He's halfway hard already, and quite frankly, I wouldn't mind touching and playing with _him_ this time.

It isn't until I have him pressed to the shower wall, his fingers scraping against my scalp, ankles hooked around my waist, head tossed to the side with a wanton moan, the stool overturned in our hurry, that I remember the food we left on the dining table.

I forget again the moment Ken's whole body convulses and he moans, "Daisuke, make love to me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. That happened.
> 
> I gotta admit, I'm super nervous to post this chapter. I've written smut plenty of times, but it was all F/M or F/F. This is my first time writing M/M and I'm, you know, a girl, so if I got something wrong, please let me know. :)
> 
> Also, dear god, this was intense to write.
> 
> Okay, I'm going to go scream into a pillow now.
> 
> Next chapter: Where Daisuke _actually_ planned to confess...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer. I meant to have the rest of the fic edited and ready to go before starting on my 2020 daily project, but yeah...that plan failed. So I just got this edited, and I'm editing the final chapter right now so it's ready. Enjoy!

_DAISUKE_

_Sunday, 9 p.m._

"I can close my eyes without you covering them, you know."

I shake my head, even though he can't see. "Of course you _can_," I say, close to his ear. "That doesn't mean I trust you to keep your eyes shut."

Ken scowls, but I keep my hands in place over his eyes until we're right in front. He probably has an idea of where we are anyway with the music loud over the speakers.

The Caretta Shiodome complex is tall and imposing, but during the winter, your eyes never focus on the Shiodome itself because you're too busy staring at the blue and white lights shimmering all around you, glowing and flickering and dancing in tune with the holiday music. 

"Okay," I murmur. "Prepare to be awed."

When I finally remove my hands, he blinks a few times to adjust to the light as white sparks up the enormous blue Christmas trees, then blue lights spread across the ground, surrounding us. He spins slowly, taking it all in, but I only have eyes for him.

"It's beautiful," he finally says.

I nod, watching the soft smile on his face. "Yeah, you are."

He turns his blue-violet eyes on me, and a touch of pink rises to his cheeks. "I was talking about the lights, Daisuke," he chides.

"I know." I step closer, clasping his hand in mine, and grin. "But I was talking about you."

He rolls his eyes, but his blush increases. "I know," he says in a quiet, bashful voice.

With a flourish, I wave my free hand around the light display. "See what a lovely, romantic confession you ruined?" I sigh wistfully as I turn back to him, holding my head high. "It was going to be perfect and wonderful and sweet, but you just couldn't wait."

Ken narrows his eyes. "You know how much I hate surprises. I've told you hundreds of times, but you delight in tormenting me."

"Oh, so you're blaming _me_ now?" I nudge him in the side, mouth flattening into a thin line. "I think you're just impatient."

"Says the most impatient person I've ever met."

I cross my arms over my chest. "That's not very nice. I waited twelve years for you, but you couldn't wait a couple more hours?"

"You were the one who said you couldn't wait any longer," he reminds me.

"Not after your ridiculous drunken semi-confession, no." I shake my head. "Not after you were throwing yourself at me, trying to tear my clothes off and have your way with me."

Eyes dangerously narrow, he starts to say something, to continue the argument and probably up the ante, but he pauses, brow furrowing, and something lights up his eyes. "Twelve years?"

I nod.

"So the crush you mentioned last night, when you were pretending to still like Hikari," he says slowly, and I recognize the look in his eyes—realization, recognition, understanding. "That was me?"

"Of course it was, you baka," I snap as heat rises to my cheeks. But I hesitate, rubbing the back of my head as I allow the embarrassment to take over. "Well, to be fair, by the time I realized, I was long past the crush stage."

"And when did you realize?"

"The first time I slept over at your place, right after BelialVamdemon." I look away, and he squeezes my hand, reassuring, kind. "I woke up that morning, surrounded by everything that felt and smelled like you, and it just felt right—like coming home. And then I watched you help your mom make breakfast and nearly ruin her delicious souffle pancakes, and I just thought to myself that if I got to spend the rest of my life like that, just being with you instead of worrying about saving the world, I'd be happy."

Despite his blush, Ken laughs. "I see you've always enjoyed my struggles in the kitchen."

"It's certainly entertaining," I say with a shrug.

"For me," he says, his voice suddenly solemn, "it was Christmas. That first Christmas."

I cock my head. "Your party? What about that made you…?"

"We were playing some game, and it was this big mess of yelling and joking around, and something made me laugh—maybe it was Miyako? I don't remember. But everyone else looked at me like it was the strangest thing and commented on how they'd never heard me laugh before, but you…" If possible, his blush intensifies as he buries his chin in his dark gray scarf. "You weren't surprised in the least. Or rather, you were surprised by _them_, not me. You've always understood me."

I bite my lip, frowning. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Ken looks at me like I'm insane, then purses his lips. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I roll my eyes, but I suppose he has a point. I turn to him, taking his hands in mine, and look him straight in the eye. "I thought it was obvious." He opens his mouth, but I don't let him speak. "Ken, I've been flirting with you since the day I met you. Before I even realized I liked you."

He frowns.

And I frown too. "Well, not the first time, obviously. The soccer match." I squeeze his hands. "Don't you remember this dorky, stuttering mess of a boy coming up to you to make sure I didn't hurt you too bad? You shook my hand, and I didn't want to wash it for a week. I didn't even care I lost the match to you because you were amazing—and I'm not just talking about your skills on the pitch. I was _glowing_. Well, until…"

Ken nods, and I'm glad I don't have to say it. Even twelve years later, we don't often talk about the short period of his life he spent as the Digimon Kaiser. That usually requires alcohol, and I generally try to let him steer the conversation.

"I will admit," he says slowly, still not meeting my eyes, the blush returning to his cheeks, "I always thought you were rather cute."

I cock an eyebrow. "_Always_?"

He doesn't look at me.

"Even when you were…?"

That makes him direct his gaze to me finally. "Yes, even as the Kaiser." He clears his throat and dons a small smug smile. "Really, how often do you find a truly worthy adversary?"

My brow furrows.

He's making a joke. A joke about being the Kaiser.

Well, I suppose it has been twelve years.

"And you were truly worthy, Daisuke." His voice is softer now, no longer teasing. "That hint of a crush grew when you offered me your hand of friendship, and it only continued to grow from there, no matter how much I tried to crush it with reminders that we were friends and nothing more." There's a tinge of sadness to his voice now, and well, we can't have that…

I smirk. "Ah, so my joke about BDSM wasn't far off."

He pulls back and smacks me in the chest. "Seriously, we were eleven years old. That's hardly where my brain was focused."

But I laugh. "Hey, I'm not complaining. I'll try anything once."

Despite himself, he releases a bout of anxious laughter. "You're insane."

"And you love it."

He steps closer, pressing against my chest. "I love _you_." And he closes the distance between us, placing a kiss on my mouth right in the middle of the Caretta Shiodome as easily a hundred people watch the glittering light display.

And I'm definitely not complaining.

I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him tight against me, and slide my tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss, savoring his taste. His fingers slide into my thick hair, scraping against my scalp, and I take a deep, steadying breath, pulling away before we get too enthusiastic.

"You know," I murmur, nuzzling his cheek as he slows his breathing, "now that I have you, I'm never letting you go. You won't be able to get rid of me."

He presses a kiss to my temple. "I don't know why I'd want to."

"If you're moving apartments," I say, bringing back his panicked words from dinner to make my point, "I'm following you." I heave a sigh and squeeze him closer. "But I'm not sure I see the point. We have a perfectly good space. It seems silly to move."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he says, nodding, and a beautiful smile spreads across his face. "But maybe we could consolidate."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Consolidate?"

"Well, it seems just as silly to take up two rooms, don't you think? And you know, mine is the bigger room, and I have the bigger bed…"

I look up at him with a giant grin. "Why, Ichijouji, are you asking me to move in with you?"

A light flush rises to his cheeks. "Not if you're going to act like that."

"Okay."

He raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

I nod.

"You're not worried it's moving too fast?"

"We've been doing this ridiculous dance for twelve years, Ichijouji. I don't see the point of going slow. Haven't we gone slow enough?" Laughter bubbles in my throat. "I'd ask you to marry me right now if we could."

His eyes widen, and he plants a slow kiss on my mouth. "I'd say yes in a heartbeat," he whispers against my lips, and he covers my mouth with his again.

"It'd be very romantic too," I say, pulling back from the kiss to gesture around the light display. "I mean, this is really the perfect place for a romantic overture, don't you think?"

Ken purses his lips. "Yes, yes, I'm sorry I ruined your love confession. Are you going to throw that in my face constantly?"

I grin. "At least once a year. On our anniversary."

"Motomiya." He levels me with a serious gaze. "Shut up."

"Make me, Ichijouji." I stick out my tongue.

He heaves an irritated sigh, but he presses his lips to mine and I'm no longer interested in talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, now that they're together, they can be adorably fluffy.
> 
> Only the final chapter left!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey look! It's the final chapter!

_KEN_

Hikari lifts the infuser from the pot and lays it on her saucer before pouring herself a cup of the bancha green tea. "You see," she says as she sets the pot on the table again, "I told you it would work out fine."

I scowl at her.

Yes, she was right, but she doesn't need to be smug about it.

She casts a small smile in my direction. "And you were worried over nothing."

"It was hardly _over nothing_," I snap. "Even if I was wrong about my assumptions, worrying about potentially ruining my friendship with my best friend is _not_ nothing."

But Hikari only smiles. "How are things now that you're back to your normal schedule?"

I shrug and take a sip of my own drink, a smooth jasmine green tea. "I had class this morning and I just got off work, so we haven't seen each other today. He was sleeping when I got up. And I'll probably be asleep when he gets back from his night shift. There's only a short window in the middle before he heads to work that we can really see each other today."

"That sounds hard."

I quirk my head. "Most days aren't like this. When he works the lunch shift, we're back at the apartment around the same time and get to spend the evening together."

"Yes, but the first official day of dating and you barely get to see each other?" She shakes her head, then takes a sip of her tea. "Do you miss him?"

I narrow my eyes at her, skeptical. "Not really."

She raises an eyebrow.

I set my cup on its saucer and lean back in the chair. "Really, Hikari-san, we've been friends for twelve years and we've lived together for five. We're so acclimated to each other's schedules already."

"Dating doesn't change anything?"

I open my mouth, then pause as a hot flush rises to my cheeks. "I mean, it adds certain…bonuses."

"The sex?" She smirks. "Or have you not done the deed yet? God knows, after years of exhausting sexual tension, I would've jumped him the minute I got a confession out of him."

My blush increases tenfold. "I didn't _just_ mean the sex. There's the kissing and the cuddling too. And you know, he's very affectionate with his words as well."

Her smirk widens into a wicked grin. "So you have had sex. How was it?"

I splutter for a moment, but there's no sense in giving in to her. "My point is, despite those additions, it hasn't changed the foundation of our relationship. We're still best friends who respect each other, and we're still adults who have everyday lives, jobs, responsibilities. We don't get to laze around in bed all day, and I'm fairly certain we'd get bored doing that."

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're doing it right if you're bored?"

I clamp my eyes shut and take a few steadying breaths to remind myself she's fishing for information. "Don't you think you'd have better luck interrogating Daisuke?"

Hikari nudges her tea away and clasps her hands atop the table. "Oh, so it's _Daisuke_ now."

I frown. "He's always Daisuke."

"You two have been best friends for twelve years, and you never stopped calling him _Motomiya_ before this weekend."

I shoot her a scowl. "I call him _Daisuke_ when the occasion calls for it."

"And now that you're dating, the occasion calls for it?" When I refuse to answer, she says, "And yes, for the record, I would get more information out of Daisuke-kun. He has no filter, especially when it's something he's so happy about. But he might actually manage to hold his tongue if he thinks you'd be embarrassed."

I take a drink of my tea and nod. "Well, for the record, and because I don't think you'll stop trying to weasel information out of me until I give you something…yes, we've had sex, and it's excellent."

"Have you had _the talk_?"

Frowning, I raise an eyebrow. "Which talk is that?"

She sends me a pointed look.

"Ah," I say as a light blush spreads across my cheeks. "Yes, we have, but…"

Hikari purses her lips. "Let me guess. You were so desperate to get in his pants that you forgot to talk to him about STDs? Please tell me you at least used a condom."

"I…well, yes."

"But?"

"Not for everything," I admit in a quiet voice.

She just stares.

"I know it was stupid and reckless," I snap, lowering my voice. "We weren't thinking. But I'll have you know it is far less likely to transmit things through oral."

Hikari scoffs. "Less likely is still likely, Ken. Don't try to justify stupidity."

I heave a sigh. Because she's right.

And it's not like it really made a difference. We didn't use a condom when we had sex in the shower or when we were half asleep after getting back from the Shiodome. So that one condom was basically useless.

"Yes, fine," I say, resigned. "But we did talk about last night, and it's not a problem. Besides, we're going to get tested again to make sure. Are you satisfied?"

She hums, swirling her half-empty cup. "No, but apparently you are."

I almost—_almost_—cover my face with the palm of my hand. "Hikari, how in the world did you acquire such a dirty mind?"

She casts me an incredulous look. "You do know who my brother is, don't you? I lived with him until I was eighteen and he moved in with Yamato. Trust me when I tell you, Taichi has one of the dirtiest minds in Tokyo—in all of Japan."

Laughter bubbles in my throat, but I swallow it down, along with the remnants of my jasmine tea. "Well, no wonder Daisuke idolized him for years."

Hikari snorts into her teacup.

I pull out my phone to check the time.

We've been here for nearly twenty minutes, and Daisuke's evening shift starts in about forty minutes. If I hurry back to the apartment now, I might be able to spend a little time with him before he has to get ready to go, especially since he won't be back till late.

But before I can slide the phone back into my pocket, it starts to ring, vibrating my whole hand.

Daisuke.

How does he know?

"Moshi moshi."

"Give the phone to Hikari-chan," he grumbles on the other line.

I frown but hold the phone over the table. "It's for you."

Her brow furrows, but she accepts the call. "Daisuke-kun?"

I can't hear the words, but his voice is loud and animated and definitely irritated, and after a long minute, she says a quick, "Yes, of course. I'll see you later," and hands it back to me.

The call has ended—he hung up—before I even have the phone in my grasp.

But Hikari smiles at me like she's won some sort of prize. "He told me to wrap it up because he wants his boyfriend back so he can do unspeakable things to you before he has to leave for work."

A bright red blush rises to my cheeks. "That damn Motomiya," I say under my breath. "He could have talked to me instead of saying that to _you_."

"Yes, well, apparently he wasn't pleased when he realized we were getting together on the day you two have so little time together—and your not being there is _obviously_ my fault." Her grin takes on a particular Cheshire quality that grates my bones. "You'd better hurry, Ken. I don't think he wants to wait any longer."

I rise from my seat, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and bend low in a parting bow. "We'll get together again soon."

"I'll call," she says. "Oh, you two are still hosting the Christmas party this year, aren't you? You usually do, but I haven't gotten an invitation yet."

I frown. "Ah, yes. Sorry, I seem to have gotten distracted. I'll send them out this week." My eyes dart toward the door, then I give another quick bow. "Arigatou, Hikari. You've been a great help."

She smiles as she ushers me toward the tea house's front door. "Daisuke-kun awaits."

I rush out the front door, holding my bag close under my arm, and head in the direction of our apartment.

Yes, Daisuke awaits.

My _boyfriend_ awaits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, seriously, I really appreciate everyone who has read and supported this fic. I'm so thankful for everyone who has taken the time to read and leave me kudos and comments. It's been so much fun writing this fic, and I'm so pleased everyone has enjoyed it.
> 
> If you want to read more of my Daiken fics, I have several one-shots posted and am in the process of writing more chapter fics. :)


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